


Erlestoke

by Vaysh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enforced Feminisation, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prison, Suicide, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erlestoke House of Corrections is a low security wizarding prison. It's not Azkaban, Draco Malfoy thinks when he's committed to serve his five months prison sentence there. But Erlestoke holds horrors that Azkaban doesn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erlestoke

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Harry Potter Darkfest 2009.
> 
> [HM Prison Erlestoke](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erlestoke_%28HM_Prison%29) in Wiltshire shares with the fictional wizarding prison of this story only its name and its location. After an "astoundingly good" inspection report in 2003, the prison was declared one of the best in the country.
> 
> My heartfelt thanks go to my beta Pink Mint, for her meticulous attention to detail and the grammar lessons.

 

It is an odd coincidence that brings Draco Malfoy and his mother to the iron gates of Erlestoke House of Corrections at the same time as Barnabas Greengrass arrives with his two daughters. They stand in awkward silence, Draco's elegant mother and Daphne and Astoria in robes with fur trimmings and wool caps, wrapped in the morning mist before the looming gate.

Mr Greengrass and he both wear simple robes, Draco notices, nothing extravagant or expensive. _You don't want to draw attention to yourself in a place like this_ , his mother said, in a tone that carried all the unspoken fears that have been going through Draco's head ever since the verdict was declared. A blond posh pure-blood boy in prison. Alone. He takes a deep breath to stop the hot fear that washes over him as he looks down the quaint, cobble-stoned road that leads into the village. In just five months he will be home again, celebrating his nineteenth birthday with a beast of a party before he leaves wizarding England for good. The dark brick building before him is not Azkaban. His father is the one he should be afraid for.

His mother and Mr Greengrass chat amiably now, which Draco thinks is wholly inappropriate. Greengrass isn't even old blood, he's a carpenter turned _nouveau rich_ when he took over the family business of his wife and started supplying the wizarding world with antique furniture.

Daphne tries to speak to him, but Draco turns away. She'd been a favourite of the Carrows, always ready to cast a _Crucio_. Draco doesn't recall her having any qualms about using an Unforgivable, and yet she is free while he has to go to gaol.

Astoria doesn't let go of her father, hides her face in his robes and clings to them when Daphne tries to take her away. Mr Greengrass bends down to her and Astoria gives him something that makes him smile and pat her blonde head, as he puts the gift into the pocket of his robes. He has large, strong hands, Draco notices, the hands of a man who works with them.

The high gate opens and swings back without a sound. Two guards clad in the maroon Erlestoke uniforms check Draco and Mr Greengrass' names on a roll of parchment. What a pair they make: the youth offender with the faded Dark Mark and the slightly balding man without the Mark, guilty of funnelling large sums of Galleons into the Dark Lord's cause. The unfairness of it all comes back to Draco and he swallows. This is not the place or time to rage against what has happened to him. He will get back at them, all of them, one day. But first he has to make it through the next five months. And make it he will.

A black bird swoops out of the mist with a caw and alights on one of the old, stone gate piers. Draco glares at it when they pass the gate and are lead through the courtyard into the building. Tears prick his eyes. Soon Mother will have to leave and he's going to be alone with all these strangers.

But first they have an appointment with the prison's Governor, a round-bellied wizard dressed in robes that match the colour of the guards' uniforms. He is friendly enough when he asks Draco and Mother into his office, introduces himself with _John Wilmot, Madam, no relations to the Earl of Rochester_ , and a chuckle. They go through the terms of Draco's sentence again. He's convicted of 'accessory to trespassing, assault and murder'; only his youth and mitigating circumstances kept him out of Azkaban. It makes Draco angry to hear it all spelled out again. He doesn't deserve any of this. Merlin, _he_ had that lunatic in his home and Draco won't even think of the things the Dark Lord made him do. Using the Imperius and smuggling a necklace and mead into Hogwarts was nothing compared to it. It is punishment enough that he is not allowed to finish his education, but is forced to spend months in this sordid place instead of studying for his N.E.W.T.s. in Durmstrang where Mother secured a place for him.

Better angry than afraid, he thinks, when the Governor pats him on the shoulder and says, "Couple of months fly by in no time." In Mother's direction he mutters something that sounds like, "Mudblood justice, shame for the boy," and Draco cannot help but smirk.

He is careful not to let that smirk show when he and Mother are sent off with a burly guard whose eyes are icy-blue and cold and all that Draco is afraid of. But the guard is not looking at him; he stares at his mother. They say good-bye and Draco almost cries when he watches her slender shape walk down the long grey corridor, waving at him and mouthing, _It will be all right, darling._

The guard at his side chuckles and Draco realises this was the wrong thing for him to see.

He's brought to Storage where they meet up with Mr Greengrass again. The corridors are filled with a rush of inmates in prison garb, but it's eerily quiet in the storage room with its high wooden counter and the rows of shelves. The burly guard snaps Draco's trunk open and throws everything on the floor -- his robes, his shirts, his socks, his books. They leave him nothing but his wash bag; all else is logged into storage. The guard even haggles about the toothpaste, but the officer in charge slaps the expensive French brand back into Draco's hands.

"What about my Potions book?" he asks, keeping his voice soft and timid. He has not packed any book he cares about but he's planned to study up on Potions, make use of the waste of time as best as he can.

"No personal things." The officer behind the counter wears a long thin moustache, to hide a harelip, Draco suspects, from the strong nasal tone in his voice.

"It's a school-book," he tries one more time.

"You won't be studying here, pretty boy," the burly guard says, icy-blue eyes twinkling, and Draco knows he should never have mentioned the book. He is asked to hand over his belt, his tie; they make him kneel down and take the shoelaces out of his custom-made Italian shoes. Then the officer takes his wand, ties a piece of parchment around it that says _no. 3168_ and drops it into a drawer underneath the counter. By the clattering sound of it, there are dozens of wands stored in there. It makes Draco furious. Nobody should be allowed to take a wizard's wand from him.

Further down the counter, Mr Greengrass is having his own argument.

"No pictures, no jewellery, no valuables," a red-haired, tight-lipped guard yells at him. "Can't you read the rules, prisoner?" His uniform is buttoned up all the way to his pronounced Adam's apple. Draco hates him instantly.

"My daughter gave me the locket just now in front of the gate. Come on, chap, you're a married man yourself." Mr Greengrass points at the golden ring on the guard's left hand. "It's just a picture and a lock of her hair. Sentimental stuff. You know how girls are at this age."

Draco is impressed and it's not that he wants to be. If Mr Greengrass uses this smoothly honed voice to sell his antique couches, then Draco may be tempted to buy one himself, once he is out of here. But the friendly talk clearly doesn't impress the guard. He rips something out of Mr Greengrass' hand and throws it onto the counter. It's a small oval-shaped locket on a golden chain.

"Don't get chummy with me, prisoner." The guard is standing very close to Mr Greengrass now, too close for it to be comfortable. "Nobody here cares about who you are outside. Forget your pretty little daughter, forget your precious _connections_. At Erlestoke, you're nothing. Is that clear?"

Mr Greengrass nods, his eyes drawn to the storage officer who gives the golden locket a curious look, then shoves it into a small brown envelope. With his baton the red-haired guard slaps at Mr Greengrass' jaw so he has to look at _him._ "Never mention my wife again," he mutters, his voice so low Draco can only hear it because of the uncanny quiet in the room.

"Think you're better off than him?" a soft voice drawls behind him.

Draco shakes his head when a paw-like hand hits his back so hard he's stumbling towards the door. The burly guard makes him walk down the busy hallway, then up narrow stairs and more stairs and more. They end up in a deserted corridor underneath the roof, where Governor Wilmot is waiting for them with still another long roll of parchment in his hands.

The guard steps up to him and they quietly talk. Draco feels ridiculous with his stack of linen sheets, wool blanket, maroon-striped clothes and his wash bag with the half-emptied toothpaste on top.

They make him wait forever. He's counted the fourteen doors in the corridor three times and acquainted himself with the peeling paint on the wall beside him. Finally his guard turns to him and says, "All right, Sir, we'll have him single-celled."

He grabs Draco by the elbow as if he couldn't walk by himself, but before Draco can pull away, the Governor calls out to them from the stairs, "Put him to work in the library, Fenwick."

The guard -- Fenwick -- keeps silent as they walk to the end of the corridor. He opens the cell with a long iron key. Draco feels the wards beating down on him like sharp, cold hail. The room is smaller than his closet at the Manor, eight by five feet at the most. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air. But other than that the cell is all right. The square barred window goes out towards the old park and grey sky. In the distance runs the dark line of Erlestoke Manor's woods.

Draco takes one step into the cell, then turns with a questioning look towards the guard -- _Fenwick_ , he reminds himself -- before he puts his things on the bed. Fenwick nods and Draco sits down. The mattress is so thin he can see the metal springs pushing up through it. Fenwick watches him from the door, a toothy smile on his ruddy face that does nothing to warm the cold in his eyes.

"Enjoy your first day, blondie," he says, then slams the door shut behind him.

Draco lets out a deep breath. There's a sconce on the wall, a wooden chair, a rickety table. Underneath the bed he discovers the chamber pot. No _Moste Potente Potions_ , but they left him his fucking toothpaste! Draco laughs out loud. The sound is brittle and shaky, but it feels good to laugh in this place. He doesn't need his potions book to make it through this.

  
*****   


The food is disgusting, over-cooked and too salty, but the servings are big enough for those brawny blokes over at the tables where the real criminals sit. Draco only sees his fellow inmates at mealtimes and in the bathroom. Nobody has yet come on to him. There are guards watching everywhere.

There are no windows in the room off the library where Draco has to work. It is even smaller than his cell, with one desk, one chair and stacks and stacks of books. The air is so dry his eyes burn within hours. But it's clean and the job is easy. The library is changing its classification system, going from the old Wenlock Code to a numerical system that has been in use at Hogwarts forever. _Welcome to the twenty-first century_ , Draco thinks when the librarian, a wrinkled, grey-haired wizard who looks older than even Dumbledore, tells him what to do.

Every day he sits in the small coop, removes the old labels with solvent and glues on the new ones when the parchment and leather have dried. He does it without any magic, but he suspects the glue is some kind of sticking potion. The solvent smells acidic and medicinal, like something Muggles would use. They make him do elves' work and his throat is parched from the dust and his back hurts badly in the evenings. Still it's much better than he'd expected. In the afternoon, when the wizened librarian has left for the day, Draco is allowed to keep the door open for fresh air and daylight.

And then there's Elliot, a thin boy with sandy hair who delivers books to the inmates and in general gives the librarian a hand. He can't be much older than Draco; he hardly looks old enough to be working in a prison. Muggle-born, Draco quickly finds out, but Elliot seems to hold no grudge against wizards with the Dark Mark on their arm. He smuggles pumpkin juice into the library for Draco, he chats with him whenever he comes by on his rounds. Predictably, Elliot's hero is Harry-Circe's-gift-to-wizarding-kind-Potter, and once he learns Draco was at Hogwarts with Potter, he wants to know _everything_ about him. Draco's not seen Potter since the battle in the Great Hall. It's rumoured he's at St. Mungo's, recovering from what's politely labelled 'nervous exhaustion,' but everybody suspects is spell damage from the Dark Lord's Killing Curse. Of course, Draco mentions nothing of this to Elliot, but sticks to telling funny stories about Potter blowing up cauldrons in Potions class. Which inevitably enamours Elliot, who's only been to Muggle schools, even more to the Chosen One. Inwardly Draco rolls his eyes at the boy, but he's grateful for the quiet afternoons when they talk about Potter and Hogwarts and Muggle books. Elliot never asks why Draco's at Erlestoke, and Draco doesn't tell him.

He writes his mother every other day. He has to ask Fenwick for parchment and quill. The guard grins at him knowingly when Draco hands him a letter to be approved for delivery. Draco knows they read his letters; they are allowed to, after all. Still, the thought of Fenwick touching the parchment his mother will hold in her beautiful hands makes him sick. He looks forward to the days when he does not have to write. It's all meaningless drivel, anyway. Mother will come visit on Sunday. Then he'll tell her everything about this place.

He's not yet been allowed yard exercise; he's not been out of the building in five days. He misses flying, the wind in his hair. He finds himself walking around in his tiny cell, three steps to the window, three steps back to the door. He sleeps badly on the hard mattress. The hours are long at night when he stares out the window until daybreak.

  
*****   


On Friday evening, shortly after lockdown, they come for him: the red-haired guard, the moustached officer from Storage, and Fenwick. Draco's half asleep in his bed when the door to his cell bangs open and the three uniformed men enter. With a _Lumos_ Fenwick lights the candle on the wall he extinguished not half an hour ago.

 _This is it_ , Draco thinks. In the blink of an eye he is back at the Manor, the red-eyed maniac sitting at the head of the table, throwing threats and deadly insults at his father, casting the Killing Curse with such ruthless nonchalance ... Draco forces himself to calm his breathing. He will not pass out like he did when the Dark Lord killed that silly teacher. Then the tight-lipped guard pulls Elliot into the cell.

It's the moment when Draco realises Elliot, no matter his age, is so much younger than him. His brown eyes are wild with fear; he is pale like a ghost. Fly open, belt removed from his trousers, he tries to cover his groin with his hand. The red-haired guard will have none of that; he yanks both of the boy's arms behind his back, so hard Elliot screams out loud. They shove him against the side of Draco's bed.

Draco instinctively scrambles against the wall, clutching the blanket to his chest. He sees the leather belt in Fenwick's fist just before it comes lashing across his head. Entirely unprepared for it, the pain overwhelms him. It's as if boiling water is scalding the skin on his temple and ear. He tears up instantly and covers his face with his arms. Sounds echo back and forth in the small cell, the light dims to a fuzzy dusk. He hears clearly the words, "Hold on to the boy, McKinnon. The poof'll blow him." Then Draco is wrenched from the bed and finds himself on his knees.

The cock in front of him is soft, a pale piece of flesh hanging from the unbuttoned fly. Uncut, he notices, the foreskin wrinkled and trembling. The whole body before him is trembling.

"No," Elliot whispers. "I don't want that."

"Every man wants that," Fenwick says and the red-haired guard -- _McKinnon_ , Draco forces himself not to forget -- chuckles. It sounds like he's got pneumonia, wheezy and wet.

Fenwick's fist is in Draco's hair, his grip so tight Draco cannot move his head even one inch. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other fist, the belt wrapped around it. No ring, Draco notices and concentrates on this knowledge, tries to think logically, tries to remember details. _No ring. Small blue tattoo on the thumb. A faint scar across the knuckle._

Elliot moves away from him. "I don't," he says, sounding desperate. "Draco, I don't want this." He's begging _him_ , not the bloody guards. Begging Draco not to do what these men are forcing him to. He has no choice in this. That Elliot is begging him, more than anything, makes Draco shake with fear, all of a sudden. He shakes still when that red-haired McKinnon pushes Elliot towards him. Draco's mouth and nose are pressed against the limp cock that seems so small and child-like. Elliot starts crying, he whimpers, "Don't do it, don't, please. Don't."

All Draco wonders is, _How the hell am I going to get him off?_ He tentatively licks at the soft cock, one swipe around the head. Elliot bowls over, pulls away. He screams and struggles in McKinnon's hold until the belt whips across his head, too. There's blood on Draco's face; drops of it run down his cheek and fall to the floor. They shove him against Elliot again. McKinnon has the boy in an iron hold, one arm around his chest, making it impossible for Elliot to use his arms. McKinnon yanks his trousers further down, exposing pubic hair, base of prick, balls. He is careful not to touch the boy's skin, Draco notices.

"Suck him." Fenwick's voice is low and commanding.

Draco takes the drooping head of Elliot's cock between his lips. Gently, for he doesn't want to hurt him. He doubts pain turns Elliot on. The welt on his temple burns like hot coal. At least he imagines that's how hot coals on skin must feel. Fenwick pushes him forward, makes him take in more. Elliot whimpers as if he's hurting, but Draco feels his cock twitch ever so slightly in his mouth.

"You like to eat dick, blondie, don't you?" Fenwick's loosened his grip on Draco and he's crouched beside him. "Knew it," he says with a nod towards the third man in the cell. "Our little Death Eater here is a poof."

The storage officer has not moved or said one word since they came. Draco glances at him and finds him staring, baleful dark eyes on him. That man hates him. And Draco has no idea why.

Fenwick yanks him back to the business at hand. "Blow him, blondie. If little Elliot here does not come in three minutes, you'll feel the belt again."

Shit. Draco takes in more of Elliot's cock. He is definitely getting hard now and Draco sucks gently, twirling his tongue around the soft rim of the foreskin. Elliot cries and moans and whimpers in McKinnon's hold, but he's no longer pulling back. Quite the opposite. Draco feels him thrusting, slowly and so hesitantly he's sure Fenwick doesn't even notice. He pulls back, lets the head glide almost out of his mouth. It's not the first cock Draco's sucked and he knows from experience the irresistible pleasure when someone sucks on the slit of the head just as it slips from soft lips.

"Oh God," Elliot groans and starts struggling again. He wrenches one arm free and smacks his fist fully into Draco's face, shoving him away. "Don't do this!" he screams.

Blithering idiot. Merlin, that hurt! Blood gushes from Draco's nose and it runs into his mouth. He grabs Elliot by the waistband, makes him stop squirming. "Hold still," he says as calmly as he can. If his nose is broken, he'll make the git pay. Fuck!

Fenwick's fist pulls just a bit harder at Draco's hair.

"I'm going to make this good for you," Draco says to Elliot. _Hold still and it'll be over in a minute_ , he means, but that would be a dumb thing to say aloud. Never let the enemy know what you want -- and Draco wants this to be over and done with, have the arseholes out of his cell, including that bleeding wet who is making things hard for him.

Draco doubts very much that Fenwick and McKinnon want it to be over quickly. No, have the Death Eater suck the Mudblood a bit longer, break them both, take their pride, make them shame each other. Salazar, those low-lives are not worthy of the name of wizard!

"Now, that's the spirit." Fenwick practically purrs. He lets go of Draco's hair and caresses his neck. The tender touch makes Draco almost jump out of his skin. He jerks forward, away from those strong hands; he clutches Elliot's hips and holds on to the other boy.

"Fucking ponce," he hears a voice behind him, gone so hoarse and dark he barely recognises Fenwick. It is all the warning Draco gets.

The air hisses before his pyjama top is wrenched from his back and pain sears into him like a bolt of lightning. His skin snaps open -- he can feel it splinter and break like the thin wood panels he clamped too hard with pliers when repairing the Vanishing Cabinet. Draco's head tilts towards Elliot's belly. Red sparks before his eyes as he tries to keep his body upright. It feels like his head has been severed from his neck where the belt lashed across it.

"Please," he moans.

"See what you've done?" McKinnon sounds impossibly cool and calm. "Your boyfriend's so bored with your weenie, he's falling asleep."

Trembling fingers touch Draco's face and move along his jawline. They scrape his smarting ear and Elliot doesn't mean to hurt him, but Draco lets out a sob; he can't hold back anymore. Not with the flaming pain across his neck that makes him sweat and shake and want to bury ever deeper into Elliot.

"Okay," the boy says, smoothing away Draco's hair from his face. "Okay." So gently.

Magic surges, so powerful it makes the metal bed rattle. A spell enfolds Draco in a cloud like smoke, moments before he hears the muttered, _"Episkey"_. Pain trickles away as his skin closes and is healed by magic. A glorious sense of comfort radiates from his back; it feels so good with the smarting pain gone.

It takes seconds before Draco registers just how strong the healing spell had been. With his lips wrapped again around Elliot's dick, he sucks, takes in the small shy thrusts, swirls his tongue around the cock that hardens and thickens in his mouth, all the while thinking Fenwick didn't need to say the spell aloud, didn't need his wand, which is safely tucked back into the sleeve of his uniform. The man is capable of wandless magic. The bastard is playing with him, letting him feel a touch of his power. Draco doubts anybody here -- McKinnon, Governor Wilmot, the bloke from Storage -- have any idea just how powerful a wizard Fenwick is. How dangerous.

While his teeth graze gently along Elliot's erection, teasing him, making him moan, Draco tries to remember who all went to Hogwarts with his parents. Fenwick is their generation. Not Slytherin -- Lucius Malfoy made sure his son knows all wizards and witches who were Sorted into the House of the Basilisk. But the name seems familiar, now that Draco thinks about it. A memory tickles at the back of his mind, something to do with Prefect's duty and the Armoury Gallery. But how could such a powerful wizard who's been to Hogwarts end up as a lowly guard in a small wizarding gaol?

Elliot thrusts harder, clearly aroused, but he still has a long way to go.

"You have one more minute, pretty boy," Fenwick whispers at Draco's side.

The threat of the belt is enough to make him concentrate on his task. He prides himself on being good at this -- Merlin, he brought Blaise off in no time, and not only once. And Blaise Zabini is as straight as a rod. Lightly, Draco squeezes the head of Elliot's cock between his lips, he moves the tip of his tongue against the slit and rubs it. Elliot's hips jerk forward and he is panting, trying to hold back but unable to resist the tease of Draco's tongue. His fingers are still touching Draco's face, pulling him close, pushing him away, wanting this. Hating it.

Draco lets the length of Elliot's cock slide against the roof of his mouth. A sharp gasp and a violent thrust; Elliot is losing control. Draco's pretty sure this is his first blowjob ever, and he remembers how quickly he himself came when Theo sucked him off that first time at the lake. The boy is hard now and so thick Draco's struggling not to gag. But he doesn't pull back, instead he sucks and licks as well as he can with a mouthful of cock. _Come on_ , he thinks, _come on._

He moves his head back and Elliot thrusts forward, too close now to be gentle, body set on release. Behind Draco, Fenwick steps nearer. His knees grind into Draco's shoulder blades, which are still tender from the belt. The guard's groin is pressed against the back of his head. He is hard as a rock. Draco hides a smirk as he blows Elliot for real, head bobbing up and down, taking him in deep. The boy's thighs shake like he's about to buckle any moment.

Fenwick bears down on Draco's head. Magic slices through him, sharp and sickeningly familiar -- _Imperio_. Just for a split second and it's gone. Draco finds himself with more cock down his throat than he can handle. He tries to swallow, gags, tries to breathe and can't. _Stay calm. Breathe through you nose._ He can hear Theo's voice from years ago, but he can't breathe, can't. With his body's full weight Fenwick is forcing him to take Elliot in deeper and deeper. Draco's throat seizes shut, tears spring from his eyes as his body reacts, survival instincts kicking in. He fights, arches up with vicious effort, using hands and head and all his strength to get away, to come up for air. But Fenwick is so much stronger. A short burst of magic sweeps through Draco and saps away his will power. He screams, or he tries to, for no sound comes from his mouth filled to the hilt with twitching cock.

Someone laughs, cruel and languorous, but Draco, squeezed in without anywhere to go, without air, can't see who it is. He is gagging constantly, his body jerking wildly, tears streaming down his face. Black dots swim before his eyes. He needs to breathe, needs air, needs --

He's yanked back so hard the collar of his pyjamas comes off. His stomach roils as he lands smack with one cheek on the grimy floor and gulps, gulps for air so greedily, he is making himself sick with dust motes and age-old smells, sucking it all in.

When his vision returns, Elliot is on his knees before him, eyes closed, one hand clutching the bed frame, his erection impossibly huge and red. He sways back and forth, croaks, "No, no ..." as a drop of pre-come seeps from the tip of his cock. The clear fluid dribbles down the length of Elliot's prick, shimmering pearl against thick purple vein.

Draco chokes on the sharp acid rising from his stomach. His body jerks and he brings it all up in forced, painful heaps: half-digested fishcake, carrots and sugary lemon tart. He pukes all over the floor before him, can't stop puking until he's a sweating, trembling mess.

Elliot is crying silently, imploring Draco with wide eyes to be all right. Draco is not sure himself, but he nods. He has to lie down. One more second upright and he's going to pass out. Elliot scrambles to force his erection into his trousers. His fly won't close all the way, and he pulls his shirt over it. Draco curls up in the vomit on the floor. What does he care? He wants them all to leave. He wants his bloody cell back. And if Fenwick still wants him to blow that kid, forget it! He's going to show them all his own bit of wandless magic.

"Well?" McKinnon asks. He sounds bored. One day Draco will get back at him for that.

"Let's leave." It's the first word the officer from Storage has said during the entire half hour or so since they've invaded Draco's cell.

"Second thoughts, Pep?" Fenwick drawls. "Pissing your pants already?"

"I'm going." The nasal tone in the officer's voice is stronger than before.

The three of them disappear without another word. They leave Elliot in Draco's cell and the door wide open. It's clearly his job now to lock prisoner number 3168 in for the night.

Maybe Draco expects some kind of apology. Maybe he thinks Elliot will clean up the mess on the floor. He has a wand, after all. Instead Elliot keeps crying and just looks at Draco for so long finally he can't stand it anymore.

He says, "What the fuck are you staring at?" His throat bloody hurts and it's all Elliot's fault.

Elliot's eyes never leave Draco as he moves back towards the door and pulls himself up. A red welt runs across his left cheek where Fenwick hit him with the belt. His shirt is spotted red on the collar and damp where it covers his receding erection. He lowers his gaze for a moment as if to collect himself before saying something, anything. When he looks up again, he stares out the window. It is the moment when Draco becomes invisible to him; Draco can feel it. He lifts his head to turn to the window, too. The bright glow of the candle on the wall glimmers against the barred night.

A whisper, " _Nox_ ," then darkness.

The door slams shut and leaves Draco blind on the floor. He breathes slowly, once, twice. He thinks, _I can deal with this._ Over and over again. He spent an entire year scared out of his mind; he will make it through these five months. Slowly he rises and wipes the vomit from his face and hair. The stink is unbearable. He curls up on the bed, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. It hurts in his chest, almost as much as his neck and the burning welt across his temple. He reaches underneath the pillow for the tube of toothpaste. He unscrews the cap and sucks at it, savouring the clean taste. He thinks of summers spent in Aix-en-Provence with his parents. Lavender fields sparkle sweet and purple in the dazzling light of the sun.

This night, lying awake and waiting for dawn, Draco hears the bells for the first time, far away but coming closer.

  
*****   


It must be going on noon. Draco is still waiting in his cell. Fenwick has brought him breakfast this morning. It is something unheard of; nobody gets served breakfast at Erle, not even the Governor. The scrambled eggs are over-salted again; the bread is so hard it hurts Draco's gums to bite into it. No tea. Nothing to drink, in fact, not even the watered down apple juice the inmates are served for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Draco would give a lot for the thin juice now. He hasn't had anything to drink since lunch yesterday. Still, Fenwick fucking _served_ him breakfast, thick porcelain plate on an old-fashioned wooden tray.

It's Monday, the first day of his second month in Erlestoke House of Corrections. Draco has no idea why he hasn't been allowed out of his cell today. For the last four weeks he has been working in the library. The grey-haired librarian barely talks to him, but Draco is rewarded with an appreciative nod whenever the old wizard checks on the growing stacks of books, sporting bright new labels on their spines.

Draco has not seen Elliot since ... It's been weeks. He knows Elliot is around, though. His book trolley often stands right in the middle of an aisle, as if the boy's just taken a short break from restacking. But Draco never sees him coming back. And he's waited for him to come back from wherever he goes, waited as long as he could without the librarian noticing.

When Draco came to the library the first time after, a bottle of pumpkin juice was waiting for him on the desk. It's the last he's seen of Elliot and of course, the librarian caught him drinking from it. He never asked where Draco got the juice from in the first place. But pumpkin juice near his precious books is against the Rules. The grey-haired librarian put up more of a fuss than even that old hag Pince, and Draco received his first punishment: no yard exercise for three days.

He loves to be allowed out into the courtyard, to walk for more than just the few steps in his cell and in the same corridors every day, to the bathroom and down the stairs to the hall for meals and to the library. If he didn't think he'd make a fool of himself, he'd be running from the tall birches to the gate and back, as fast as he can, just to lose some of the tension that's been cramped in his neck ever since Fenwick's belt hit him. Some days his headaches get so bad he can't eat dinner.

Yard exercise is from one to two, after lunch. Draco squints into the bright light that comes in through the window. It's a gorgeous winter day outside, brisk and sunny, the promise of snow in the air. Merlin, he misses being outside. He misses flying so much. He can only hope that Fenwick will let him out of the bloody cell in time for yard exercise.

Mother didn't come yesterday.

Draco doesn't understand it. She always comes Sundays and they spend two precious hours in the visiting room. The guards are watching them, but they can sit close enough to whisper and Mother brings cake and sweets. He never told her about what happened. It's nothing to worry Mother with. She would be appalled and make things worse for him in here. Raise a bloody complaint with the Governor, that's what she would do. Merlin, his mother doesn't even know he's sucked dick since third year at Hogwarts. But why didn't she come to visit?

Did she mention something last Sunday about not being able to make it? He's checked her letters that faithfully arrive every other day. Nothing.

Something is not right. Mother would never miss a visit. She knows how much he waits for her when he's so alone in this place. There is only one reason why she would not come without letting him know: an emergency with Father. Draco dares not to think of what could have happened to him. He tries not to think of Azkaban, ever. Erlestoke holds enough nightmares for him.

The door is thrown open and Fenwick comes in, another tray in his hands. Lunch is a ham sandwich and a bag of pretzels. Still no tea. Draco wonders whether the hot water boiler in the prison's kitchen is broken. Just looking at the stale pretzels makes him want a glass of water badly.

Fenwick puts the tray on the desk, then looks at Draco with his usual toothy grin. He's planning something, Draco knows it. The day after, Fenwick Scourgified Draco's cell and healed his cuts and bruises. They've left him alone ever since. Perhaps it was an initiation ritual or something. Still, Draco wonders why it had to be Elliot and not one of the arsehole guards. Fenwick would have loved to have Draco blow him. Like knows like, and Draco knows a queer when he sees one. During the past weeks he's learned to read the guard quite well. Nobody knows about his magical prowess, no one suspects he's gay. Draco tried Legilimency on him, careful quick brushes when Fenwick was not aware Draco was holding his gaze. His mind is an almost blank slate with only the most superficial thoughts for display. Closely guarded by Occlumency, all the time. Draco has yet to see Fenwick lose his cool. But the one thing he wants from Draco is unquestioned deference; that much is clear.

It is against his better judgement, then, that he asks, because he can't stand to sit in this bloody cell for another hour, "Do I get to go out for yard exercise?"

"No." Fenwick leans against the desk. They are not three feet from each other and it feels much too close.

"I was supposed to start with a new category today. Isn't Mr Hastings waiting for me?"

"Hastings' been told you're sick." Fenwick stares, waiting for a reaction.

"I am not sick." Fucking mind games. Getting up, Draco reaches around the guard for his lunch. There is an odd smell around Fenwick, a touch of mint, a hint of coal. It reminds Draco of Snape, of all wizards. He grabs the sandwich, sits back on his bed and bites into it. The bread is stale, left over from the weekend.

Fenwick chuckles, a quiet dark sound that Draco has come to dread during the past weeks. "Ah, so you're not sick. What about the headache last night? A light fever, the doc tells me?"

"I'm all right." They dragged him into the infirmary yesterday, when he couldn't eat dinner. The doc is a young Squib who looked at Draco once and gave him a Sleeping Potion. Draco slept for nine hours straight; he didn't once hear the bells.

"Can I have something to drink?" he asks, emboldened by the memory of the doctor. It is not healthy to go without water for so long, and that doctor is at Erle to make sure about the inmates' health.

"Thirsty, are you?" Fenwick, arms folded before his chest, sounds smug. Perhaps he just wants to rile Draco up. Or maybe whatever he's planned has something to do with not letting him drink. Not letting him out of the cell. Draco's head snaps to the door, but there's nobody, not McKinnon, not Elliot. They won't bring the boy into this again. Elliot has carefully kept out of Draco's way; Draco has not mentioned Elliot again in his letters to Mother. They've made it impossible for Elliot and Draco to be friends. And _that_ \-- Draco is certain -- is all that Fenwick cares about.

He glances through lowered eyelashes at Fenwick's groin. The way he leans back against the desk, his hips are jutting out. Draco can see the soft bulge underneath the folds of maroon-coloured cloth. He's not aroused. What does the bastard want from him? The greasy smell of the half-eaten sandwich makes Draco sick all of a sudden.

Then Fenwick pushes himself off the desk. "Tonight you get something to drink."

It sounds more like a threat than a promise. But as the afternoon slowly trickles by Draco cannot stop thinking of the rich, dark taste of tea on his lips, the spicy flavour of pumpkin juice on his tongue. The cool memory of tap water makes his throat ache.

  
*****   


This early in the year, night falls around five. In the blue light of dusk Draco sits on the chair at the desk. He tried to sleep, he recited Golpalott's seven laws word for word as they are spelled out in _Magical Drafts and Potions_. He experimented with casting a wandless _Aguamenti_. No such luck. He hasn't heard or seen anybody since Fenwick left. An uncanny quiet lies upon Erlestoke House of Corrections. Only the black birds caw outside in the deserted park.

McKinnon brings him dinner. The red-haired guard opens the door just enough to push the tray in. The smell of overcooked food at once fills the cell, some kind of goulash and potatoes. And there on the wooden tray sits one of those cheap white cups tea is served in at Erle.

Draco is off the chair the moment McKinnon pulls the door shut and leaves. He snatches the cup from the tray. It's cold and not tea. The liquid substance is smooth and thick, its colour an opaque orangey pink. It looks pretty and Draco tries to convince himself that it is some odd blend of blackberry, plum and pumpkin juice. But he has not earned his O's in Potions for nothing. The liquid's frothy consistency, the vague scent of mint, the shimmer from the lacewing flies -- all of it spells Polyjuice.

Bastards. It takes all of Draco's will power to not hurl the cup against the wall. He can see the pink goo clearly in his mind's eye, dripping down the grey, flaky wall. His hand shakes badly and he almost drops the cup by accident. But he holds on to the handle. A high percentage of Polyjuice Potion is plain boiled water, no matter the other ingredients.

He sniffs at it and wonders whom Fenwick wants him to be. _Elliot_ , it can only be Elliot. Draco misjudged the guard's interest. Fenwick was hard that night not because he wanted _Draco_ to blow him, but because he wanted that boy Elliot. It makes sense, in a sick and twisted way. Elliot is not a prisoner; Fenwick can't get to him. But he has Draco in his power, Death Eater scum whom nobody cares about in this shithole. Elliot often leaves his uniform jacket lying around. Draco's seen it in the library thrown over the back of a chair. Everybody can get at it and pick a stray hair of Elliot's from its collar.

Cup on the desk, dinner untouched, Draco sits on the bed. In the darkness he sucks at the toothpaste again. His mouth is so dry, it hurts to swallow without saliva. But the sweet, clean taste soothes him, helps him to think clearly. He's taken Polyjuice before. He can be Elliot for a while. If Fenwick wants to blow him, he will deal with it. If Fenwick wants to fuck him, fuck Polyjuiced Elliot rather -- well, he's not the first bloke Draco's had up his arse. Elliot's arse, that is.

  
*****   


It's a clear night outside with the light of the full moon reaching into Draco's cell through the bars. Time passes like the clouds that ever so often darken the sky. The bells chime nine, then eleven. Draco thinks there must be a church in the village. When he closes his eyes, he sees the bottle of pumpkin juice Elliot left in the library for him, apology, last gift, something. How tempting, the drops of moisture on the glass. Draco can almost taste the nutmeg and feel the smooth juice wet his lips. Hunger he can deal with. Merlin, he's too nervous to eat anything as it is. But he hasn't had anything to drink in more than thirty hours. He _needs_ to drink.

When the bells announce midnight Draco downs the Potion in fast large gulps.

He barely notices the vile taste, for it is so good to have something wet and fresh slide down his throat. His mouth waters at the delicious feeling, as he savours it for a short moment. Then his insides coil and twist viciously. Draco doubles over. A burn like fire moves from his stomach all through his body. There is a sharp tingling all over, then his skin turns hot and bubbly, melting off his bones like burnt wax. His shoulders are squeezed together by a force he can't resist, at the same time his chest puffs up. Draco goes down on his knees, unable to stand any longer. The stuff is Polyjuice all right.

Moments later it's over and he kneels panting on the floor. Long strands of hair fall into his eyes and tickle his neck. He touches his face that has become smaller and rounder; the skin is incredibly smooth, no stubble on his chin and jaw. He looks at his hands and they are slender, wrists shrunk absurdly thin, long nails shimmering silver in the moonlight. His trousers feel unnaturally lose, and when he reaches between his legs, his dick is gone. Draco brings one hand to his chest and he feels small firm breasts underneath the rough cloth. _What the bloody fuck?_

He gets up and stands on trembling legs. This body feels so light, hardly like a thing made of bones and flesh at all. His shirt and jacket hang lose on his small frame. The trousers are about a foot too long and they swirl around his ankles and shoes, which are much too big for him now. He makes a step, stumbles over his own feet and almost takes a fall. Quickly he bends down and rolls up the too-long trousers. With a feeling almost like awe he trails his fingers across the smooth hairless skin of his shins. He's been Polyjuiced into a girl. A girl ...

He walks towards the window and focuses on the image reflected in the glass. Out of the moonlit night the pretty face of Astoria Greengrass stares back at him.

  
*****   


The girl is younger than Astoria and she wears a Muggle skirt. Her blond strands have none of the silver sheen of Astoria's hair, her cheeks are slightly broader, her nose a bit flatter. But other than that the resemblance is striking.

Draco looks into the man's dilated pupils, which are almost black and glazed with lust. The officer from Storage is unable to take his eyes from Draco's face, he stares and stares, all open to Draco's Legilimens spell, with no defences, magical or otherwise. Draco can see and feel all of it: a shabby Muggle classroom, other children in the background, the humidity of a hot summer day. The boy with the pronounced cleft in his lip stands helplessly before the pretty blonde girl. He likes her so much, wants to kiss her, touch her hair that is like sunshine. But she laughs at him and sing-songs, _Clumpkin, clumpkin, Nono's a clumpkin!_ Loud and mean, so all the others hear. Hot embarrassment colours the boy's face as he stammers and swallows, unable to move, unable to say a word, so afraid that his lips won't form the sounds that in his mind are perfect and beautiful ...

"Stop it, blondie!" A big rough hand slams over Draco's eyes, breaking the line of vision between him and the storage officer. For a moment Draco struggles against the hand, but Fenwick has him in a strong hold. "Merlin, Pepper, don't you have any Occlumency at all? The brat's been reading your mind straight. He's a bloody wizard, damn it. Let's just hope he's not stumbled upon anything important."

"Julie ...?" The officer's nasal voice trails off.

 _Nono Pepper_ , Draco registers, filing the name to memory. He will not forget it. They have him strapped onto the bed, his slender girl's legs spread wide open and tied to the metal frame. Fenwick holds down his shoulders and now his head, too. His hand covers half of Draco's face. All he can see is the reddish dark where Fenwick's thick fingers are pressed over his eyes and nose. The guard is surprisingly gentle, making sure Draco cannot see, but not hurting him.

Of course, he has hurt him before when they came, perhaps half an hour after Draco Polyjuiced into Astoria. They must have tracking wards on him, for how else could they've known when he finally drank the Potion? Fenwick slammed him against the wall when Draco struggled and tried to resist, hopeless as it was with this small weak body. They stripped off his prison clothes, left him naked but for his pants, which are overlarge for this slender girl's shape. The bruises hurt enough to tell him there is nothing he can do, whatever their plans are with him. The short glimpse into the officer's, into _Pepper's_ mind tells Draco something of what to expect. The moment before Fenwick broke the connection, he felt the boy's embarrassment turn to hatred, hatred laced with a desperate and unfulfilled need. Unfulfilled until now.

"Julie," Pepper whispers again.

"She's all yours," Fenwick drawls and McKinnon's dirty laugh comes from the door.

There's a gasp at the wall, of shock or fear, Draco cannot tell from the sound alone and he cannot see, cannot turn his head with Fenwick holding him down. He wonders whether it's been Pepper gasping. He wonders whether it was his own startled gasp at what must surely follow now. The bed creaks and groans under the weight of a large body, as someone -- Pepper -- heaves himself onto the bed and comes to kneel between Draco's spread legs.

"Leave her alone, Jake." The voice is so slurred with need that the nasal tone is barely detectable. "I want to see her eyes."

 _Jake_ Fenwick takes his hands away from Draco's face, but hesitates long enough for a trailing caress along his temples. The gesture is unreadable -- does the bastard mean to comfort him? Or does he want to fuck Draco himself? With his eyes still closed, Draco focuses on his breathing, inhales slowly, exhales. He is going to make it through this. Then Fenwick is gone and Draco is left with this big man so close to him, his smell of pine soap, beer and, faintly, sweat everywhere. Draco slowly opens his eyes.

There's another gasp, louder this time, and it comes from Pepper, his broad face looming above Draco.

"Such pretty blue eyes, like violets --" Pepper literally drools on him, there's spit dripping down from the cleft. He leans even closer, rubs his scratchy cheek against Draco's. It takes all he has not to squirm and try to get away. Then Pepper moves his mouth over Draco's, his lips very shy and no tongue. Draco is thankful for it. He keeps all still and hopes Pepper doesn't want more. But he just pulls back. His lower lips quivers and he looks at Draco as if he's disappointed. Merlin, what did he think? That he enjoys being snogged by a harelip? Clumpkin all right, Draco thinks. Pepper's eyes widen and for a moment Draco fears he knows Legilimency after all. But the man's face turns red as a beet, embarrassment all over him. He moves back, weight shifting to the foot of the bed, and rummages through his trouser pockets. With an awkward gesture he pulls out a red-chequered handkerchief, unused and carefully folded. He wipes the spittle from Draco's chin and cheeks, mumbling apologies to the incomparable Julie whom Draco already hates with a passion. If he has to be a girl, he wants to be Astoria and not some stupid Muggle brat.

"Hey, Pepper, you going to fuck her or what?" McKinnon seems bored again already. Perhaps he wants a go himself once Pepper is done with the girl. What's one more? Draco focuses on anything but the soft chiming of the bells in the distance.

Pepper wipes his face one more time, then he puts the handkerchief away. He turns his head towards the door. Draco can see his profile clearly in the light of the magical candle.

"Out with you!" he snaps at Fenwick and McKinnon. The nasal tones take nothing away from the authority in that voice. Draco reminds himself to not underestimate the man.

The two guards also seem to know they'd better obey. McKinnon chuckles and Fenwick smacks him playfully when they step towards the door.

"What about him?" Fenwick asks.

 _Him?_ Draco twists his head, trying to see. But all he recognises is a human shape sitting in the shadows at the door where the candle doesn't reach.

"Leave him or throw him out, I don't care." Pepper has already turned back to Draco. He caresses the small breasts with one hand, unbuttons his trousers with the other. His cock is fucking huge and for the first time Draco is afraid of the pain. He's not had time to find out much about this Polyjuiced body, but from how it felt when he touched the pussy, Astoria is still a virgin. The fear drives all questions about this other person out of his mind. He can't suppress a strangled moan.

Pepper's head snaps up and searches Draco's eyes. Idiot! Didn't Fenwick tell him to be careful? Draco waits until Pepper's hand is back to groping his tits, eyes still glued to Draco's, then he breathes " _Legilimens_ " without moving his lips. It's his only chance to find out anything that he can use against those pricks, and Merlin, he will not miss it.

Draco's spell cuts easily through the whirl of memories to a deeper place. There, a black-feathered owl drops the _Daily Prophet_ on an embroidered table-cloth.  Disappeared Believed To Be Killed the headline reads, underneath it says, Octavius Pepper, 64, latest victim of Death Eater attacks. An adult Pepper takes the paper from the owl's claw. A witch, her face much too old for the greyless hair, implores him with teary eyes. Pepper shakes his head. His father's death leaves him drained and empty; he's lost the ability to shape his slow words. Draco senses kinship that goes beyond family. The _Prophet_ falls onto the breakfast table, revealing a photograph of the man: older, smaller than his son, but the same cleft lip, the same thin moustache. Draco follows Pepper's view out to the street. It's a Muggle neighbourhood and a blonde woman walks by with a little boy at her hand. The jolt of mingled hate and want that shoots through Pepper says _Julie_ loud and clear and --

The slap across his face is so hard he yelps. It's not Occlumency but equally effective: the pain makes Draco twist away and the connection breaks. His left cheek burns like fire.

"I can see you, Death Eater, behind her eyes," Pepper growls hoarsely. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing. Get out of her eyes! This is just for me and Julie." His voice becomes a mere whisper, but Draco recognises the words for what they are. Pepper is mental, certifiably crazy. This must be why the others follow his orders, why Fenwick obeys the man, if reluctantly. Merlin, Pepper should be in the Crazy Ward in St. Mungo's. How ever could a lunatic like him become an officer in a gaol?

Strong fingers tighten around Draco's throat. Pepper wants an answer and Draco nods and coughs, trying to press out a yes.

"Don't you dare say a word," Pepper hisses, inches away from Draco's face. He lowers his weight onto him, crushes this fragile girl body with his thick thighs, his protruding belly, his barrel chest. His cock slaps against Draco's thigh, huge but still soft. Pepper's just a shower. Still, he tries to push the half-erect cock into the tiny hole between Draco's legs, shoves it against the pliable softness again and again, but doesn't manage to enter. He's getting impatient, his mounting anger radiating from him like heat.

He says, "Open you fucking legs. Am goin' to ... goin' to ..." He tears at Draco's left breast like he wants to rip it off, then he takes it into his hand and squeezes so hard, so hard that Draco cannot help but scream with the pain. Inside the breast there is an achingly tender core that Pepper grabs and rolls between his big fingers, back and forth, and it hurts so much, Draco cannot stop screaming. He knows it's useless; they put a Muffliato Spell around his cell. No one will come to help him. Still, he needs to scream or else he'll go mental.

And Pepper stops. It feels like a victory. The bastard lies on top of Draco and doesn't move. His weight pushes him deep into the mattress so that the springs bore into his back. Pepper is panting, his cock hard now. He lifts himself on his arms, brings his mouth one more time to Draco's lips, still only touching. Then he drags his face across the aching breast, the thin waist of the girl and buries his nose in her soft pubic hair. Draco tells himself it's easier when he's all relaxed. It can't be that different from taking a dick up his arse. And so he let's himself go lose, let's his thighs fall open a bit more. It's all Pepper needs. He groans with need and frantically grabs his cock, guides it towards Draco's pussy and slams into it.

Draco's head is knocked hard into the metal frame of the bed as he is shoved against it. His legs are spread so wide, it feels like his hips must break. Excruciating pain burns through him as something rips apart. It's not Astoria's virginity that is taken, but sinew and muscle that were never meant to be stretched that wide without preparation. This body is too young to endure any of this. Draco feels the child in this Polyjuiced body, senses the skin memories of a trotting horse beneath it, of smooth water gliding over it. Draco has felt pain that turned to pleasure, but his knowledge means nothing to the girl's body. It goes into shock under the onslaught of such cruelty. Draco's heartbeat accelerates, his lungs contract, making it hard for him to breathe. Cold sweat covers his skin, his head starts swimming as his blood pressure drops. Soon he will either throw up or pass out. And there's nothing he can do to convince this body that it will be all right, if it just holds still and focuses on something else, something good, something far away from here. Like flying a broom through a blizzard. Like swimming out into the middle of a dark green lake.

He fists the sheets, holds on to them with all his strength. Pepper slams into him again and again. It hurts incredibly, as if he's scraping the skin off Draco's insides. Aren't girls supposed to be wet? He's never heard his straight mates talk about having to use lube for sexual intercourse. In his mind he screams at the brutal bastard, _Use some bloody lube!_ \-- _And how about a Condom Spell?_ , his mind supplies, not helpful in the least. One good thing: it will all be over soon. Polyjuice wears off after one hour, two at the most. And once Astoria is gone, Pepper will no longer want to touch him. He's had his fuck with the imaginary Julie and that will be it.

But Merlin, he does take forever. Draco's lost his sense of time, but the bastard must have been at it now for twenty minutes or more. He grunts and groans, head bowed over Draco's girl body, his hips grinding into him with each plunge. Draco's back will be all bruises and cuts from the bedsprings. Blood flows from between his legs; he feels it trickle down his thighs. And it's not that bastard's spunk, Draco's certain of it. If his bad luck holds Pepper won't get it off, no matter how much he wants to. And it will all be _Julie's_ fault.

The taste like cabbage is heavy in Draco's mouth, from the Polyjuice Potion that threatens to come up. He grabs for the sheets, presses his lips shut, to not vomit, to not scream, to not cry, as his body is invaded over and over again.

A loud grunt, a heaving thrust. The back of Draco's head is slammed against the bed frame with such force he blacks out for a few moments. He comes back to pain white and sharp that twists in his groin. His girl's voice, high-pitched and thin, fills the air like fog. _He's going to kill me_ , Draco thinks and then there's only this huge heavy body moving above him, this hot hard pain splitting him open inside. He grabs the crinkled sheets in his hands, holds on to them, holds on, holds --

The incessant creaking of the bed. Shadows the candle throws onto the ceiling. This is what Draco remembers. Not the pain. Such pain does not enter memory. He cannot remember the moment when Pepper came. But come he did, for the sheets are all sticky and wet. Pepper pants and pants and can't seem to stop panting. His big limbs are all loose and relaxed. Draco is crushed beneath the heavy weight of his body.

He turns his head with effort and sees the figure huddled at the wall. In the darkness eyes shine bright with tears. Draco meets their gaze without thought, without feeling anything. The bells ring right outside in the park. And Draco starts to hum, still only audible to himself, a soft chiming that reverberates within him and soon will fill all his being.

  
*****   


McKinnon is a much more efficient rapist than Pepper. He casts a Silencing Spell on Draco and adds some kind of protective charm. Then he throws a jacket over Draco's head so he can't see, can't do Legilimency, can hardly breathe. McKinnon weighs a stone less than Pepper; his dick is smaller, too. He barely touches the girl's body and penetrates Draco without a moment's hesitation. It hurts, but there's enough spunk for him to ram into Draco without too much pain. He comes within minutes and is off Draco immediately after. The stifling, sweaty stink of the jacket is the worst of it.

All the while, muffled by the scratchy cloth around his head, Draco hears jostling and shoving at the door.

"Get off your pure-blood arse." Pepper's voice.

"He's can't get up, you idiot. I Petrified him, remember?"

"Make him move, I don't care how. I want the piece of shit out of this cell."

Draco can't understand Fenwick's grumbled response, but the " _Finite!_ " that rips through the air is clear enough.

The echoes of the spell have hardly subsided when the screams of the fourth man, the man who cried, watching what Pepper did to Draco, fill the cell. He yells, "That's a little girl there! My daughter! You can't do this to her! You dirty pigs can't --"

Fenwick's sharp " _Silencio!_ " cuts him short. With a loud thump a body is thrown against the wall. " _Stupefy!_ " Fenwick shouts, and Draco feels magic blast through the cell. The iron door screeches furiously in its hinges as someone bangs it open. For a moment Draco hopes that the man got away. Then Pepper's Petrifying Spell ends the kerfuffle. McKinnon laughs beside him as the jacket is yanked from his head.

Mr Greengrass lies face down on the floor, unmoving, one hand raised in a useless fist. The bald patch on the back of his head is round and the size of a Galleon. Fenwick and McKinnon grab him at shoulders and legs and carry him out of Draco's cell. Pepper is nowhere to be seen. The door of the cell is wide open. Out in the corridor, Draco can hear the two guards curse as they drag Mr Greengrass to wherever his cell is.

He could walk out now, a little girl dressed in nothing but ripped pants. He could walk out. But he can't.

The silence still chimes within him. He is breathing, but each exhale, each inhale is a conscious effort. The flow of air brings him slowly back into his body. He starts shaking so badly that he has to hold on to the sheets again. Carefully he moves his legs, these spindly girl's legs. Pain slices through his groin with the movement; it makes him break into a cold sweat again. He cannot help the whimpers that come from his lips. Slowly he moves his hands over his stomach, touches the girl's soft skin. How much longer until the bloody Polyjuice wears off?

Draco must have passed out, for the next thing he knows is Fenwick sitting beside him on the bed. The guard casts healing spells on him, mumbling, "Bloody pigs," as he points his wand at Draco's bruised ribs. When he notices Draco looking at him, he simply says, "Turn around."

His body tingles all over. He is warm. He feels almost good. The pain is subdued, and he wonders whether Fenwick has given him Strengthening Potion. There is a cup standing on the desk, like the one that had the Polyjuice in it. He swallows, but can taste no remnants of pomegranate in his mouth.

Draco tries to move and turns onto his belly with surprising ease. Fenwick continues with the healing spells. Erlestoke is quiet but for his soft voice; it's almost peaceful in the cell. Draco could fall asleep now if he wasn't so thirsty. He needs to take a bath badly, needs to brush his teeth. But mostly he needs to drink. He leans up on his elbow and feels a burst of strength rush through his muscles. The effect of the Polyjuice Potion grows thin.

Fenwick must have noticed it too, for he puts his wand away and stands up to get the cup from the desk. Draco sits up on the bed. A stretch runs through him, as his body lengthens. He takes the cup from Fenwick and looks into it. Orangey pink. Frothy. A shimmer of lacewing. For a moment he just stares at the guard. His blue eyes are so cold. Then Draco understands. The cup falls from his hand and Polyjuice Potion would have spilled all over the bed if Fenwick had not caught it. Draco presses his fist against his mouth and bites into it. Hard. But he can't stop the tears falling from his eyes. He sobs desperately as Fenwick gently moves his hand away. He lifts the cup to Draco's closed lips, pushes softly but insistently until Draco opens his mouth and drinks. Drinks it all, down to the last drop.

  
*****   


Draco is administered Polyjuice Potion in regular intervals of six hours. One of the three men comes shortly before the cells are opened at six every morning. One comes shortly before noon when Draco hears the other inmates walk down to the hall for lunch. One comes in the early evening. Draco assumes it must be around six from the way the blue of dusk turns ever lighter as the days lengthen into spring. And one comes at midnight. The bells tell Draco as much.

Somehow Fenwick managed to prolong the effect of the Polyjuice Potion. And Draco just knows it was Fenwick who brewed it. The other two don't have that kind of magic. But usually the potion has to be taken every hour on the hour. There's ways to have it wear off later by adding more of the powdered bicorn horn, but six hours seem impossible. Draco wonders if whatever Fenwick has changed in the potion recipe will do lasting damage to him.

He's been this girl now for more than two weeks, but he cannot get used to Astoria Greengrass' body. He will lean against the window sill and watch the other inmates do their rounds, when a lock of her long hair falls into his face and he jumps in surprise. He will stand above the chamber pot to relieve himself, when he realises he's missing his aim with piss spurting from her pussy instead of his dick. He will try to push McKinnon off him when the fucker slams him against the wall to take him from behind and finds her thin arms and small body are no match for the man.

While Draco is given Polyjuice Potion on a precise schedule, they come for _him_ whenever they want to. It's always at least two of them. They are not taking any risks. There is no chance that he may overpower one guard alone and escape. Pepper, shy and adoring and brutal, comes to fuck his Julie almost every night. He doesn't always get off, and those times are the worst. For McKinnon, Draco's a mere plaything; he shows up once, sometimes twice a day, using the girl's body for his perverse pleasures. Fenwick only touches Draco to heal his body afterwards. And to force the potion down Draco's throat when he struggles and fights and knocks the cup of out the guard's hand.

The first days Draco spent going from furious rage to utter despair, screaming until his voice gave out and pounding against the iron door with bleeding knuckles. He was so certain that someone would hear him and call the Governor. That doctor or the librarian had to wonder where prisoner number 3168 had gone. He was waiting desperately for Sunday, hoping against hope that Mother would come and they would have to let him change back, would have to let him talk to her. All along he feared that all his fervent hoping and wishing would be in vain. And it was. Nobody comes into his cell but Fenwick, Pepper and McKinnon. Sometimes they bring Mr Greengrass. He sits Petrified in the corner, forced to watch, tears streaming down his face.

In the back of his mind Draco knows they will kill him in the end. If they meant to keep him alive, he would be raped blind-folded by nameless pricks. But where is his mother? Where is Wilmot? Somebody from outside must be in contact with Mr Greengrass, too. Draco is a pure-blood wizard, heir to the Malfoy name and estate. It's simply not possible that three common gaolers can do this to him without anybody taking notice.

As the days pass, he devises long plans of revenge that involve the Manor's dungeons and the cruellest spells he recalls from his father's Dark books. The pale February sun spills over him, calling him outside. He can feel the girl's body yearn for long walks in the snow, for the warmth of a fireplace. They've taken away Draco's clothes, and he is always cold in this body, no matter how deeply his burrows himself into the sheets and blankets. And thirsty, he's so thirsty all the time. Polyjuice Potion doesn't quench the need for water and Fenwick gives him so little water. For long hours Draco lies curled up in Mr Greengrass' usual spot in the corner and thinks. It all leads back to Fenwick, every time. Pepper is mental and gets to fuck his Julie; McKinnon will fuck anything he can stick his prick in. But Fenwick? Draco doesn't understand what's in it for the guard who hides his magical power as much as the fact that he desires men. But Draco needs to understand him if he wants a chance to get out of here alive. And so he thinks and thinks. It keeps the fear at bay.

He tries to figure out the guards' routines, to detect some pattern to their comings and goings. McKinnon has family, he knows as much. They all must go home and leave Erlestoke at some point. With Astoria's long nails he scratches lines and nibs into the soft plaster of the wall behind the desk, counting the days and nights, noting who's come when. But he can't make sense of it; the patterns are just too random.

Draco barely sleeps because he's always listening for sounds in the corridor. That's why he hears the steps approach one afternoon, a Wednesday according to his calculations. On Wednesdays, the inmates get to play some kind of broomless Quidditch, and they've just come out into the park. It's still at least an hour before his next dose of Polyjuice is due. But the steps come to his cell, and Draco recognises them now. Only Fenwick wears the nailed boots that are standard gear for the gaolers. But he walks uncertainly and stumbles against the wall. He tries for the keyhole several times before he gets the door open. He's not pissed enough to forget to close the door, but he's pissed all right. Draco can smell the Firewhisky from where he sits on the bed.

Oddly, Draco feels entirely safe. Fenwick will not touch him as long as he looks like a girl. And drunk, Fenwick is vulnerable.

The guard throws a bottle of water onto the bed, casually, as if water was not the most precious thing in Draco's life right now. Draco snatches the bottle, uncaps it and drinks and drinks and drinks.

"Easy, easy." Fenwick takes the bottle from Draco's lips, but he doesn't take it away from him. Instead, he pulls his own flask from his jacket and sits down beside Draco on the bed, back to the wall and legs outstretched. He offers the flask to Draco who shakes his head. Fenwick shrugs and takes a big gulp of Firewhisky.

He sits so close their arms touch. The warmth of his body seeps underneath the wool blanket Draco wrapped around himself. The girl barely reaches up to Fenwick's upper arm. Draco glances at him, trying to figure out what this is all about. Did the guards get into a fight? Has Fenwick had enough? A tiny voice in his head warns him that the Polyjuice wears off in less than an hour and then Fenwick might want to fuck him. His erection is clearly visible underneath his trousers.

But then Fenwick raises his arm and invites Draco to move closer. The girl cannot resist, it's been too long since anybody offered such comfort. Draco leans against Fenwick's shoulder, allows Fenwick to pull him tight. The warmth, the sturdiness of this body, the faint smell of mint and smoke -- it all makes Draco want to give up, give in and cry. But he doesn't, swallows the tears. For a while they sit quietly and watch as the daylight dims and a winter sunset blazes on the horizon. Fenwick drinks from his flask, Draco from his bottle of water.

"See this?" Fenwick dangles his left hand in front of Draco's eyes. _A faint scar across the knuckle._ "The scar? Barney gave me that." He chuckles drunkenly and leans his head back with closed eyes.

"When was that?" Draco's just a bit too interested, but Fenwick doesn't look like he'll notice.

"Hogwarts, o' course. I've been with Barney a' Hogwarts." Another chuckle, darker this time. His eyes are still closed. "Always wanted to fuck in the Armoury Gall'ry. Said blokes in iron suits turn him on." He opens his eyes, looks down at Draco with a smirk. "Where d'you go for sex?"

"West Tower, mostly. And the greenhouses."

For some reason, Fenwick finds fucking in greenhouses hilarious. Draco tells him about the famed incident with the cock ring and the Mandrake root, and he roars with drunken laughter. Then he abruptly stops. "Takes no Mandrakes t' turn you back into a boy," he whispers. His voice is slurred with more than whisky, and he weaves his fingers through Astoria's long hair.

They sit like this in the fading light. Draco is not surprised Fenwick doesn't move, even when it's high time for the next dose of Polyjuice. He can feel the changes in his body, a stretching and filling. Fenwick holds him through the entire transformation, only tightens his grip when Draco's hair withdraws into his scalp until it's back to its normal length. Fenwick's breathing hard and fast; his arousal is palpable between them.

Draco flexes his fingers and toes, turns his head to one side, then the other. It amazes him with what speed and little pain the change back happens, as if blood and flesh and a wizard's magic know the body they truly belong to. He moves away a bit from Fenwick to give his larger frame more space. The guard doesn't stop him, but he never takes away the arm. He's playing a dangerous game, but Draco is underfed and exhausted. Fenwick has at least three stone on him; even pissed, Draco stands no chance against him.

As if to make the point, Fenwick shakes his wand from his sleeve and places it beside himself, out of Draco's reach. "Don't get any ideas, blondie," he mumbles.

Draco nods while he's getting all kinds of ideas. The door is unlocked. He has his body back. Fenwick is drunk. If he is quick he can make it down the corridor and the stairs. He has a vague memory where Wilmot's office is. He can find it. But it's after six. Is the Governor still at Erle? Who else is there that Draco could run to? The doctor? Is he in after hours? Fenwick's hand moves up and down Draco's arm, caressing his skin, pulling him gently closer. It's clear what he wants.

Draco takes another sip from the bottle, and now, with the knowledge of his own body, he tastes the faint bitterness of valerian root. It explains the aching tiredness in his bones. "Bastard," he mutters, but there's no bite to it. He feels sleepy all of a sudden.

Fenwick barks out a laugh. "Not takin' any chances with you, Draco _Malfoy_ ," he whispers in his ear.

A thrill runs through Draco as he hears his name for the first time in weeks. Then he notes the emphasis on the family name. There's history between Fenwick and his parents, Draco is sure of it.

"How was Hogwarts?" he asks with all of the girl's innocence. "Back when you were there, I mean."

" _Hoggy Warty Hogwarts_ ," Fenwick sings, entirely off-key. "Was fun while it lasted," he slurs. "Never did take my N.E.W.T.s, though. Left after sixth year." There's regret in his voice, but also something darker, something hateful. Draco's certain Fenwick didn't leave Hogwarts by his own choice.

Drowsy from the valerian root, sitting in the dark, engulfed in the warmth of another body, he throws caution in the wind and goes by instinct. "Did you know my mother? You two must have been at Hogwarts at the same time."

He knows he hit gold when Fenwick's fingers tighten around his arm. "Tell me, blondie," he hisses, "does your mummy know you like to suck dick?"

Draco shakes his head. Fenwick's hold on his arm starts to hurt.

"Thought not." A bitter laugh. "Don' ever tell her. Didn't like it one bit when she found out about Barney and me. Stuck-up bitch, that's Narcissa for you."

Fenwick must be more pissed than Draco thought, or else he wouldn't be babbling like this. But the pieces begin to fall into place. The old story, told numerous times at the Malfoy's dinner table, when his mother, doing Prefect's rounds, caught a pair of lovers in the Armoury Gallery in the act. Draco always thought they were a girl and a boy, a boy from Slytherin House. Now he is sure the boy must have been Fenwick's lover. There was some odd funny ending to the story that he doesn't now remember. Did his mother tell on Fenwick and his boyfriend? And so what? Nobody gets expelled from Hogwarts for being queer. An image flashes through Draco's mind, of Dumbledore in his outrageous robes, earrings glittering beneath his long grey hair. Another image threatens to rise, the dark one, of Dumbledore eerily pale, falling and falling --

A shiver runs through Draco's body at the memory and instinctively he leans closer. Fenwick starts caressing Draco's neck and throat, nipping softly at his ear. Draco realises he has mistaken his movements. He turns his head away sharply, mumbling, "Don't."

Fenwick sighs, but stops stroking him. He's breathing hard. Draco can see his chest rise and fall in the dark. The smell of Firewhisky is all around them.

"Merlin, wan' to fuck you," Fenwick rasps, voice thick with need. He pulls the blanket away from Draco's body. For a moment they both stare. Draco has not seen himself in weeks and this body looks strange to him. Thinner than he remembers and in the dark his pale skin seems to glow. Fenwick lets out a strangled moan. He reaches for Draco's dick, which lies nestled against his groin.

"No. Don't." Draco twists away, certain that Fenwick will force him now. But he doesn't. He merely flicks at the sconce with a disappointed grunt. The candle ignites and Draco swallows at this casual display of wandless, wordless magic. He remembers Fenwick's strength as he slammed him against wall; he remembers the icy look in his eyes. Somehow he knows all of this is Fenwick's scheme. But what, what does he want?

Beside him, Fenwick stretches into a more comfortable position, unbuttons his trousers and takes his cock out. Draco scrambles to get away, but Fenwick's arm clamps down on him. "Let me look at you at least," he whispers as he starts stroking himself.

Draco lies very still. He can feel Fenwick's eyes moving over his body, taking in his nakedness. It's unnaturally quiet outside. Draco stares into the night where the orange ball of the sun dips behind the line of trees. He listens to the heavy breathing beside him, the low grunts, the slapping sounds of Fenwick tossing himself off. Fenwick's other hand, the one that holds Draco close, rubs hard circles into his skin. When he comes, he buries his face in Draco's neck and moans a name that Draco doesn't catch. Draco turns towards him, has to look at him. Fenwick's head lolls back against the wall and he meets Draco's gaze. For once his blue eyes are not cold, but all soft and hazy.

"Ah, but you're a pretty boy," he drawls, voice still shaky from orgasm. "We could've had a lot of fun together, you and me."

The words make Draco's stomach knot, and he cannot help the fear that spills from his lips. "Just Obliviate me. Please. When it's all over, Obliviate me." He never meant to say aloud what's been going through his mind for weeks. Never tell the enemy what you want. But Draco so very much wants not to die.

Fenwick stares at him for a heartbeat or two, then leans forward and presses his mouth on Draco's lips. Draco gets a fleeting taste of Firewhisky and something darker, like burnt leather. Fenwick breaks away abruptly and looks towards the door. There's a racket out on the stairs. He takes his wand, cleans himself up and turns back to Draco.

"We'll see about Obliviating you," he says off-handedly, as if this wasn't about Draco's life. But he's heard and he understands what Draco is offering. It's more than Draco could have hoped for.

People are trampling up the stairs and shouting down the corridor. "Aurors!" Draco can make out in the din. And, "Lockdown! Lockdown!" as the alarm goes off.

Fenwick is off the bed in an instant. He snatches the bottle from Draco's hand and Vanishes it. Closing his fly, he looks pointedly at the blanket. Draco wraps it around himself, huddles against the wall. Already he can hear heavy footsteps tramping down the corridor towards his cell. When the door opens and McKinnon rushes in, Fenwick leans against the desk, wand pointed at Draco.

"The bloody Aurors are in for an unannounced inspection." McKinnon is out of breath and only belatedly realises that Draco is not a girl anymore. "What the fuck is this, Jake? You better not let Pepper see him like this." He looks from Draco to Fenwick and back, and Draco sees understanding dawn in McKinnon's eyes. Not his problem, but Fenwick's.

"I have him under control," Fenwick says, slur entirely gone from his voice. "Just make sure the Aurors don't come up."

McKinnon nods. One more look and he leaves, a smirk on his face. Fenwick follows him shortly after.

There's commotion all over Erlestoke. Draco watches from the window, trying to find out what's going on. Light spills from the building, but he can make out only shadows moving quickly through the dark park. He presses his ear against the door to listen. There's banging and shouting in the other corridors, and he thinks he can hear the Governor's voice rising above the clamour. But nobody comes to his cell. For a while he pounds against the door as hard as he can. Then he stops. Nobody hears him up here and he'll only pay for it if the guards find out.

Fenwick comes back hours later, when the racket died down and all is quiet again. He brings Draco dinner, cold pork chops and peas. Draco watches him as he places the tray on the desk without a word. He looks sobered. When he meets Draco's gaze, the ice is back in his eyes. It's like whatever was between them in the fading light of the day has never happened.

But something has changed. There's a bottle of water on the tray. And a familiar cup. Draco knows what he has to do.

When Pepper barges into the cell long after midnight, muttering about Aurors and their damned inspections, he finds a blonde girl sitting on the bed.

  
*****   


Draco thinks the bells must have woken him. He hears them clearly in the attic above his cell. Erlestoke House of Corrections was a grand manor house once, heart of the estate of two old pure-blood families, the Monthermers and the Montacutes. Father would know their entire history and why they passed out of existence. Draco is certain there are ghosts living in the old building.

He is lying naked and cold on the floor. There's flesh-coloured vomit on the wooden floorboards around him. It smells like rotting grass. They didn't give him anything to eat last night. Draco wonders whether the Polyjuice will wear off sooner, now that he disgorged most of it. He yearns to be Draco Malfoy again, outside and inside, even more since that short time in his body with Fenwick. He catches himself smoothing the girl's long hair from his face in a gesture that feels like he's done it forever. He will look at her left wrist and mistake the unblemished skin for his own. More and more this girly body feels familiar, and it's not only because he's learned to crouch over the chamber pot when he takes a piss. It scares him how right Astoria's body feels when he's not thinking.

It's dark outside but for a greying in the east. The cell still lies in shadows. Draco doesn't know how he passed out here underneath the window, but he remembers the beating Pepper gave him last night. His eyes are puffed slits; his head hurts as if he was banged against the wall. Familiar or not, Draco curses Astoria Greengrass' weak female body. He reaches for the window sill to pull himself up and screams with the sharp pain that shoots up his arm. Breathing hard, he leans against the wall. His right forearm hangs in a twisted angle from his elbow. He cradles it against his chest and bites his lips to not cry out again.

Draco stands on shaky legs and stares out into the morning. The bells chime softly, as they greet the new day. There's blood smears on the glass. Draco shivers. His reflection shows him Astoria's beaten-up face, large purple bruises underneath her eyes, split lip and her small nose crushed. _Curse you, Nono Pepper!_ But even more, _Curse you, bloody stupid wanker Jake Fenwick!_

All day yesterday Draco waited for him. It was the usual routine: Polyjuice at six in the morning, Polyjuice at noon, Polyjuice at six in the evening and at midnight. But it was never Fenwick who brought the potion, always McKinnon. Even more tight-lipped than usual, he threw the girl down and slammed his hard prick into her throat until Draco thought he'd die suffocating on the dirty prison floor. Then McKinnon shoved his baton into the girl's vagina, the entire length, twenty-four inches or more. Draco passed out in the middle of it. When he came around at nightfall, in a bed smothered in blood, he knew something was very wrong.

There's still an odd, fuzzy pain in his belly now. He touches his pussy and the folds are hard like bone, the hole clamped tight and very dry. Draco cannot stick even one of his slender fingers into it. Pepper, who came by last night fully aroused and lusting for his Julie, couldn't penetrate it, either. After more than an hour of a cursing, sweating Pepper digging into Draco's bruised groin and getting nowhere, Draco offered him his arse. It was the wrong thing to do. Pepper had beaten him to a pulp, all the while screaming that he wasn't a sick fudge packer and the _Death Eater poof_ should bloody leave his Julie alone.

Fenwick didn't come to bring the Polyjuice Potion. Fenwick didn't come to heal him. Draco reaches for the blood on the glass; he presses his fingers against it. A humming sound comes from his lips and joins in with the bells. He tastes his tears as they reach his lips. The saltiness surprises him. How can Astoria's tears taste like his?

As he stares out into the frost-covered park, the floorboards underneath his bare feet vibrate from the ringing within him. A part of him knows there are no bells in Erlestoke. What he hears is a memory from his childhood. A fire erupted in a Muggle farm nearby Malfoy Manor. He'd watched with his parents from the gardens as the orange shine lit the horizon, the bells of St. James' ringing out into the night. Draco doesn't remember, but Mother told him how for days he'd talked about nothing but the fire and the bells, scared and fascinated at the same time.

He knows all this. The bells are from another time, from a belfry in Avebury miles from here. And yet he hears them as clearly as his own voice. The thought has crossed Draco's mind that he may be going insane. That's why he does not stifle the humming. It is real at least, as real as the water bottle he'd hid underneath the bed. It's the one Fenwick brought him Wednesday night and never took away. It is empty for McKinnon has not given Draco any water. But it is there, bluish glass shimmering in the dusty twilight whenever Draco glimpses underneath the bed. It would be easy to break it. It would be easy to cut a mark into his left wrist with the shards. Looking at the blood smears on the window, Draco thinks there may be no other way out of this cell.

  
*****   


They are all around him, hanging from the rafters of Erlestoke's attic: a ring of six bronze bells, their sizes ranging from treble to tenor. The clappers swing as one bell after the other rings out into the open spaces around the prison, reaching from the woods to the village. Their sounds enfold the seventh bell, the one cast in flesh, which has joined them in their chant. The clapper strikes its small waist, swinging back and forth, left and right. The rippling waves of sound permeate the skin, flood the veins and make the blood sing. They spill from its lips onto sheets, onto the floor. Each strike deepens the humming that soon fills the entire cell. It ruffles the linen; the metal of the bed frame chimes with it. The hidden water bottle tinkles as the sound reaches it. Brick wall, glass window, iron door -- the humming easily moves through it and crashes into the wide open. There is no stopping the sound as long as the bell rings.

"Stop the bloody whining, bitch!"

McKinnon's yell cuts through the ringing chant, and with it comes the pain. Draco involuntarily kicks his legs to make the guard stop whatever he is doing to his pussy. McKinnon has taken to stuffing _things_ into him. Sharp things, long things, magicked things that crawl and claw within Draco. A hard blow lands on his temple, and his head bangs against the wall. White sparks before his eyes, but he cannot stop humming. Even if he wanted to, he has no choice. A mighty ringer is pulling the rope, and it's not Draco.

"Shut the fuck up. Ugly whore. Damn it! Shut up. Shut up! Shut. The Fuck. Up!"

McKinnon is losing it, pounding with bare knuckles into Draco's face. With a sharp crack the ridge of his nose breaks, for the fifth time in as many days. The girl's small front teeth are knocked lose; the next blow wrenches them from the gums. There's blood everywhere. It's hard to hum with so much blood in your mouth. But each blow just makes Draco's vocal cords tremble harder. Air pushes up from his lungs, as he gasps from the pain. Air hits the tender cords, makes them sway and swing into the high-pitched chime of the bell. A brittle sound at first, but nothing can break it as it expands and rises. The girl floats on it: unreachable like song, indestructible as the bell.

"Shut the bleeding fuck up." McKinnon's voice is a harsh whisper. Draco hears strangled sounds from the corner at the door. McKinnon moves away from him and leaves him cocooned in the soft humming. Exhale, inhale. The bell swings back and forth. With his eyes shut Draco can almost imagine that he is up on St. James' belfry, a soft breeze around him.

" _Incendio!_ "

He smells the stench of burned hair before he feels the scorching wand. Stabbing pinpoints of flame travel fast from the girl's pubic hair to the inside of Draco's thighs. His body reacts instantly, trying to twist away from the wand. The humming shatters on his tongue.

"Now you shut up! _Now_ you shut up!" McKinnon yells wildly as he presses the tip of his wand into the girl's soft skin. He has Draco immobilised from the knees down with the full weight of his body, his hands free to cast spell after spell. " _Lumos!_ " he screams and the tip of his wand blazes. " _Incendio!_ " Red sparks shoot from it.

A foot or a fist smacks into the wall. McKinnon's wand goes for Draco's throat, and he jerks away as fast as he can. He catches a glimpse of the wizard in his cell. Mr Greengrass' body jerks as he struggles against the binding spell. A burst of magic rips through the air. The desk shudders. The empty cup of Polyjuice topples and clatters to the floor. It rolls towards Mr Greengrass, who manages to kick at it so hard the porcelain breaks.

"Damn!" McKinnon clamps his bony hand over Draco's mouth, silencing the moans that Draco cannot hold back. He points his wand at Mr Greengrass, but seems at a loss of what spell to cast on him, after he's used dozens of fire spells on Draco.

The door opens, and Fenwick enters the cell. He looks smaller somehow and pale. Five days, it's been five days since Draco's last seen him. _If I survive this, I'll kill him,_ he thinks. He can feel the _Avada Kedavra_ rolling from his lips, its green light splitting Fenwick's breast. For five bloody days the bastard has not shown up. He's left Draco to McKinnon's cruel hands, his twisted magic and his insatiable prick, always hungry for new thrills, which only ever mean more agony for the girl. Fenwick's never even come to heal Draco after McKinnon's through with him. McKinnon's a sloppy healer and he only tends to the visible wounds. Draco is sure he would let him bleed to death if it wasn't for Pepper, who wants to fuck his beautiful Julie. But McKinnon, the sick bastard, has done something to his pussy, and Pepper hasn't managed to fuck him once since last week. Draco's a mess down there and it's all Fenwick's fault.

"God, what are you doing to him?" Fenwick looks from Greengrass to Draco, taking in the situation. He draws his wand. "Are you fucking out of your mind? The stink is all over the corridor." Fenwick mutters a Stupefying Spell, and Mr Greengrass slumps against the wall.

"Worried about loverboy, Jake?" McKinnon's voice is all sarcastic drawl, but he takes his hand from Draco's mouth and moves off the bed.

Draco gulps for air and immediately starts to cough. The stench in the cell is overwhelming. Now that McKinnon is off him, blood returns to his legs. Draco wants to curl up in a ball, but he can't. Not with the raw tattoo of smouldering wounds on his thighs and belly. He whimpers, can't help it. The whimpers turn into a humming, soft and stuttering at first, but then clearer as the bells in the attic join in.

Fenwick stares at him with hooded eyes. Draco doesn't want to kill him anymore. He still wants to hate him, wants it badly. Fenwick knew this was going to happen. He knew Draco would be paying for whatever McKinnon saw between the two of them. But Fenwick didn't help him. He didn't help him. Draco tries to summon the anguished sense of injustice that made him so very angry only a couple of days ago. But the last five days have worn him down. He's so tired, so cold, so thirsty all the time. His head hurts constantly. When they leave him alone, the injuries inside him keep throbbing with pain. He's not slept, not been able to keep much food down. There were moments during these last days, moments that Draco hardly acknowledges, when all he wanted was for it to be over.

Fenwick pushes McKinnon to the side and approaches the bed. His gaze hardens as he takes in the damage done to the girl. The bell keeps swaying back and forth from the impact of the clapper still. Each drop of blood, each nerve ending still rings with it, a brilliant sound that Draco holds on to as Fenwick sits down on the bed. The sheets are soaked with blood and piss, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. His cold eyes move from the burn wounds to Draco's face. The humming grows louder.

"Hear that? Hear it?" McKinnon screams from the door. "He's been doing that for days. Bloody drives me crazy. Make him stop it." He steps closer and Draco goes rigid with fear. "Hear me, gaybo? Stop the fucking shite!" McKinnon spits from behind Fenwick's burly frame.

Fenwick drops the wand into his lap. He raises his hand and Draco jerks away. But the guard only puts two fingers on Draco's lips. "Hush," he whispers, "hush, Draco."

For a few moments Fenwick's warm fingertips vibrate with the sound, then the humming peters out and fades into silence. The bell has been brought to a standstill; the ringing chant has come to an end. Only a lingering echo reminds of it. Draco swallows; his parched throat hurts as if he's been screaming for hours. Will Fenwick give him water?

The guard reaches for his wand. He doesn't meet Draco's gaze as he heals his broken nose and the hot swelling around his eyes. Yet Draco watches him as he moves on to his chest, methodically casting spell after spell. There are dark circles below his eyes. Every once in a while Draco catches his gaze by accident and wonders whether he should try Legilimency. He needs to know what happened; he needs to know what Fenwick has planned for him. For all the clear signs that his plans went awry, there is an odd determination in his face.

Lips pressed together, Fenwick heals the burn wounds. Pink circles of new skin remain, but even those will be gone in a couple of hours. Then he gently pushes Draco's thighs apart to inspect the girl's ruined pussy. His body stiffens, as his blue eyes widen in shock. His ruddy face turns a ghastly white. With a loud clank his wand falls to the floor. Even later, Draco cannot make himself believe all of this is just pretend. Fenwick's a brilliant actor, but nobody is that good.

The next moment, Fenwick has McKinnon pinned against the door. He is a big man; McKinnon's no match for him. Fenwick has one forearm wrenched against his throat. McKinnon gasps and kicks his legs, but Fenwick doesn't give an inch.

"You sick bastard!" he hisses. "Do you want Pepper to cut him up? Why are you doing this to him? Isn't it enough that you get a free fuck every day?"

McKinnon manages to get one arm free and shoves Fenwick back. "Jealous, Jake?" he grinds out. "Don't take it out on me that _you_ don't get to stick your weenie up loverboy's arse."

Draco can only marvel at McKinnon's nerve. Clearly he thinks he's untouchable now that he knows Fenwick's secret. It's beyond Draco, really, why he cannot see how dangerous the wizard is. McKinnon is just a puppet in Fenwick's plan, a puppet that stepped out of line.

"You play your sick games with him one more time and you're dead." Fenwick's voice is crystal-sharp. McKinnon never sees it coming when he knees him hard into the groin. He doubles over and Fenwick slams his big fist against his temple. McKinnon slides down the door, mouth slack and glassy-eyed. For a moment Draco thinks Fenwick's killed him, then McKinnon twitches and collapses onto the floor.

Heavy steps approach in the corridor; someone -- _Pepper_ \-- is outside the cell, trying to get in. The door smacks into McKinnon's crumpled body.

"God damn it! Open the bloody door!" Pepper sounds furious. One thing Draco learned in the last weeks: you don't want Pepper mad at you, not ever. He has no idea what hold the crazy storage officer has over the guards, but Fenwick scrambles to push McKinnon away from the door. He throws a glance at Draco, nods at him urgently, but Draco doesn't understand. Before he can figure it out, Fenwick pulls the door open.

"Pepper," he says, tone calm, placating even, "sorry about the mess. McKinnon forgot to secure the prisoner." He points at Greengrass, who's still out in the corner.

Pepper's low-set eyes burn into Fenwick, his thin moustache trembles with suppressed rage. He is livid, ready to lose it any second. There must be something that keeps him together still, and Draco strongly suspects it is Julie.

"And that's why you had to beat the shit out of him, Fenwick, didn't you?" The nasal tones are so strong that Pepper's voice is little more than a slur.

Fenwick shrugs. "Dumb fart had it coming to him."

Pepper scoffs and steps to the bed. Instinctively, Draco edges closer to the wall and starts to tremble. It's been weeks since Pepper has seen his body in the light of the day. The girl is scrawny, her hair straggly and dull. Pepper's never seen the injuries inflicted on her body. Hot fear sweeps through Draco as he realises what Fenwick meant to tell him -- _cover yourself up._ Under Pepper's penetrating gaze, he slowly reaches for the soiled sheets, which are bunched up against the wall. He tries to pull them over himself, when Pepper's fingers clamp around his wrist.

"I know what you're doing, Death Eater," he drawls, words so garbled it's hard to understand. "But you're not going to take Julie from me."

He tightens his hold on Draco's wrist until the thin bones are crushed against each other. It takes all of Draco's willpower to not scream in pain. It's his right hand, and Fenwick hasn't yet healed the broken arm. For a moment it seems as if Pepper's temper is about to explode, like last week. But then he abruptly lets go and turns to Fenwick.

"It's time you get rid of this piece of shit," he says, voice calm and almost clear. "I want to take my Julie home with me. I'm not waiting much longer." With the tip of his boot Pepper prods the Stupefied body of Mr Greengrass. "Do it already, Jake. It's not like you've never done it before."

Fenwick, body tense, crosses his arms before his chest, waiting for Pepper to leave.

But Pepper says, "Come on already. Why do you think I'm up here? The Governor has a visitor who wants to talk to you."

"What about him?" Fenwick points at Greengrass.

"McKinnon will take care of him." Pepper is already out of the cell. "Get going, Jake. Wilmot doesn't like to wait." His pinched voice echoes through the empty corridor.

Fenwick quickly glances at Draco, then he is gone. The key turns in the lock. He's left Draco alone with two unconscious men, one a prisoner, one a guard.

For a moment, Draco can but stare at the door and the unmoving bodies. Slowly the tension of the last hour drains from him and he slumps into the mattress with sheer relief. He's heard what Pepper, the bloody psycho, said and he's registered Fenwick's reaction. He's going to kill him. Draco is less scared than he thought he'd be. Instead a sense of quiet finality comes over him, deepened by the sudden stillness in the cell. He closes his eyes and listens for the bells. There may be a soft tinkling as the wind blows through the attic, but he cannot be sure. Once this is over, he may come back to haunt Erlestoke as a ghost. The thought makes Draco chuckle.

The afternoon sun warms his tired body. He is drifting in and out of sleep, with snatches of dreams mingling with reality. He dreams of magic so strong it blasts open the iron door. He dreams of clinking glass as flutes of water are raised to say a toast. He dreams of Astoria Greengrass, weaving strands of her hair before she inserts the braid into a golden locket.

A shadow falls across Draco's face and he shivers. Slowly he opens his eyes, certain that Fenwick is back. Instead the gaunt face of Mr Greengrass looms over him, grey eyes stormy and wild, so unlike Astoria's. In his right hand he holds Fenwick's wand. From his left dangles a ribbon of shiny light blue silk.

  
*****   


"Darling," Mr Greengrass whispers, "I am so sorry, my little darling. So very, very sorry." He is crying as he holds the girl in his arms.

The silk is so soft the girl can hardly feel it. With each breath she takes, the ribbon tightens around her throat. She feels light-headed, and rainbow-coloured specks shimmer before her eyes. In a distant part of her mind she registers the stale stink on her father's body, the Confunded look in his eyes. But he is warm, he is safe. He looks at her with such love. He will never hurt her.

She tries to take another breath and can't. The ribbon tightens. Her legs twitch.

"Soon, my darling, soon it will be over." Mr Greengrass' voice is so gentle. "A bit longer and you'll be safe, Astoria. My poor sweet girl. They won't be able to hurt you anymore."

 _Astoria?_ This is not her name. Her name is Draco, Draco Malfoy. She kicks and struggles, grabs at Mr Greengrass' hands and tries to pull them away from her throat. The ribbon tightens horribly; it cuts into the girl's skin. Cuts off the air from Draco's lungs.

"No!" he rasps, "No!" Darkness hovers at the edges of his vision as the walls of the cell come closer. With all the strength of this delicate body he arches up and twists around. Mr Greengrass is not Fenwick. The ribbon goes slack as he lets go of it with a desperate wail. Draco kneels on the bed, gulping in air and pressing his broken arm to his stomach. It hurts like hell. When his lungs stop burning, he turns to Mr Greengrass.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he yells, or tries to yell. His throat is too raw for anything but a croaking whisper. "I'm Lucius Malfoy's son. I'm Draco Malfoy. I'm Draco." His voice breaks on the last words and he coughs.

Mr Greengrass stares at him. The wand in his hand is shaking like a leaf in the wind. Its tip is trained upon Draco.

"They've Polyjuiced me. For weeks now. That locket Astoria gave you? That's where they got her hair from." Draco can only hope Mr Greengrass has not lost his marbles. All those long hours he watched what the bastards did to Draco, thinking he was Astoria. Looking at him now, Draco sees how much the wizard has changed. He's lost two stone at least since they were committed to Erlestoke. His skin is sallow underneath a straggly beard. Something is wrong with his eyes. His pupils are dilated when bright daylight fills the cell. His eyelids blink too slowly, as if it takes conscious effort to do so. Perfect for Legilimency, Draco thinks and wonders whether he should try.

Slowly Mr Greengrass drops the wand. His lips quiver as he tries to shape words, but no sound comes forth. Draco moves away from him and wraps himself into the blanket. The wool is unyielding with the dried blood all over it.

"He ... he said they abducted Astoria." His voice is so soft Draco can barely hear him.

"Who told you that?"

"Jake. Jake did."

"Fenwick's lying," Draco grinds out. "The bloody bastard is playing his little games with us."

Mr Greengrass gasps with obvious shock. Draco is baffled. Does Greengrass actually believe anybody in Erle will tell him the truth? Then he understands: he's used language Mr Greengrass has never heard coming from his darling daughter's mouth. He is tempted to utter curses in the foulest language he knows. But he is Narcissa Malfoy's son. A small smile is all he allows himself. Inwardly he rolls his eyes at the man. It's ridiculous that Mr Greengrass can still be affected by words after the things he's been forced to watch.

"He ... he showed me a pamphlet from the Ministry. It had your picture on it. No, I ..." Mr Greengrass drops his staring eyes. "Astoria's picture, that's what I mean. They were looking for her." He looks up again and searches Draco's face. Draco pulls Astoria's features into a smirk of his own. The effect is both startling and satisfying: Mr Greengrass jumps and backs away towards the foot of the bed.

"Fenwick must have fabricated it," Draco says. "He's a powerful wizard."

Mr Greengrass nods. "Top of his class at Hogwarts." He's toying with the ribbon in his hand.

 _Top of his ..._ Draco leans carefully against the wall. His arm hurts and the fuzzy pain in his belly is still there, but he feels better than he has in days. A memory tickles in the back of his mind, something Fenwick mentioned when he sat at the very spot where Draco is sitting now. He knows he should have paid more attention. Every small detail counts. He's got all of their names but one. Draco lets his mind drift back to the twilight hour when he had his body back. Light glints off the flask of Firewhisky as Fenwick drinks. The sleeve of his jacket hitches up to reveal milk-white skin. A scar shaped like a ragged star wraps around the first knuckle of his left hand. _... gave me that._ And again, a name, lost in an inarticulate moan of pleasure.

Mr Greengrass' mind is wide open to Draco's muttered Legilimency spell. He is Confunded all right, making it harder for Draco to find the memory he is searching for. But then he stumbles upon it, right near the surface of Mr Greengrass' thoughts. He must have been thinking of it recently, or maybe it's on his mind even now.

A moonlit hallway in Hogwarts. The boy's just turned fifteen. He is holding hands with another boy, who's older than him, strong and funny, a Ravenclaw Beater. _Jake._ They run towards the Armoury Gallery, the thrill of sexual excitement all around them. They shed their robes and Transfigure them into soft thick blankets. Jake's hot hands touch him everywhere. The boy rips his shirt open, fumbles at his fly so that Jake can reach his naked skin, his hard prick. They've been fucking for weeks now and still he gets so randy when Jake is close. The boy never knew sex could be like this. He moans into Jake's kisses, rubs himself against Jake's belly and groin, wants Jake to take him and make him come. He turns around and pushes his bum back. _Fuck me_ , he moans into the darkness, and Jake does. Their bodies seem to be made for each other, the way Jake thrusts into him slowly and surely, hitting that spot every time, that spot that makes him go crazy with need. Desperate, dirty words tumble from his lips. He's too loud but he can't help it. Jake puts the back of his hand against his mouth, and he bites into the knuckles, bites as hard as he can to stifle the screams. _Love you so much, Barney, so much_ , Jake moans against his neck. At the sound of his lover's voice the boy comes hard, Jake's blood on his lips.

Mr Greengrass twitches at Draco's gaze. _Barnabas Greengrass._ His skin is flushed underneath the beard. Absent-mindedly, he's been rolling the blue ribbon into a small coil and now shoves it into his pants underneath the too-loose trousers. He doesn't realise Draco is in his head; his Occlumency is non-existent. But he remembers what Draco just saw.

And yet there's more to the flush than the memory of a schoolboy's stupendous fuck. Draco prods a bit and a memory of his mother appears, her face younger and softer, the Prefect's badge glinting on her robes. _Sleeping with a blood traitor, Greengrass_ , she says in the stern, judgemental tone Draco knows quite well. He's not heard it much since the fall of the Dark Lord. But this is the Slytherin common room, back in the seventies, Draco assumes. His father, younger, prouder, is standing at the fire-place, watching with a sneer. _A blood traitor queer, Salazar_ , Narcissa says, disgust open now in her voice. _What were you thinking? A half-blood like you ..._ And the boy's world collapses around him, all his plans, his parents' wishes, his own high-flying aspirations. He's been Sorted into Slytherin for his single-minded ambition. He won't throw it all away for a schoolboy's crush. He will tell Dumbledore --

"You're doing it again, blondie."

Both Draco and Mr Greengrass jump and the connection breaks. Fenwick is standing in the door, a stack of clean sheets on his arm, a bottle of water on top.

Mr Greengrass shakes his head to get rid of the cobwebs in his mind. Draco knows the feeling all too well. Then Mr Greengrass turns towards the door, and Fenwick notices the wand in his hand.

"Accio wand!" he shouts, holding up his arm. With a solid smack the wand returns to the hand of its master.

Fenwick walks to the desk and drops the sheets onto it. He looks from Mr Greengrass to Draco. Somehow he seems disappointed.

"Why don't you let the boy go, Jake?" Mr Greengrass says all of a sudden. "He has nothing to do with it."

"Which boy, prisoner? D'you see a boy here? For if you do, then I can only assume there's brain damage from those Confundus Charms after all." Fenwick turns to McKinnon and crouches beside him. " _Enervate,_ " he says and casts the spell.

McKinnon starts moaning and he clutches his groin. Carefully he sits up. He looks at Fenwick with daggers in his eyes, but he keeps still. The raised wand in Fenwick's hand may have something to do with that.

"You can stop with your games," Mr Greengrass says. "He's told me what you've done to him. Let him go, Jake. You have me. You can do whatever you want with me. But let him go."

Draco is touched by how fiercely the wizard fights for him. Offering his own life for Draco's, he's braver than he's given him credit for. But it's no use; he can see it in Fenwick's cold eyes. He has a plan and he's going through with it. Nobody can convince him otherwise, least of all Barney Greengrass. Draco reaches for Mr Greengrass' arm to make him stop trying. To give thanks of some kind. The wizard turns to him in surprise. His lips twitch ever so slightly when the girl's small hand takes his, a daughter's hand taking her father's.

Mr Greengrass whispers, "I'm so sorry, my boy. So very sorry." There are tears in his eyes.

The raw pity in his voice is almost Draco's undoing, even when he knows Mr Greengrass is apologising to him as much as to Fenwick who stands at the desk and watches their every move. Draco is so terribly afraid all of sudden. What will happen when Mr Greengrass is gone, when he's alone with Fenwick in the cell? He wants to curl up against Mr Greengrass, wants to be held by him like before, when he thought Draco was his daughter. A fearful sob threatens to rise in his throat but he bites it down. He won't cry, he won't.

McKinnon scoffs and stands. He is still a bit shaky on his legs. "What now?" he asks Fenwick, voice hoarse and scratchy.

"You take the prisoner back to his cell. I'll get the girl ready for Pepper." Fenwick hauls Mr Greengrass up to his feet.

"You have a very clever daughter," he says, his voice so devoid of emotion that shivers run down Draco's back. "And she loves her daddy very much. Do you think she would want him to know what is done to her here? How she gets her pussy stuffed every day? How those rough blokes just love to shove their big dicks into her? Can you believe that she wants you to know that? When she can tell it drives you out of your mind, seeing all that? Don't you think she'd rather tell you it's some Polyjuiced boy? The Malfoy boy, too, when she knows how much you hate the Malfoys." He shoves Mr Greengrass against McKinnon, who grabs him by the arm.

Fenwick is a brilliant actor, Draco has to give him that much.

Mr Greengrass is white as a sheet. "You're sick, Jake," he whispers, but Draco can hear the doubt in his voice.

"You have a very clever daughter, is all I'm saying. Slytherin, isn't she?" Fenwick turns towards the desk, and McKinnon pushes Mr Greengrass out the door. Draco hears him shuffling down the corridor, with McKinnon yelling at him to walk faster.

He says, "I _am_ Draco Malfoy," and wishes that his girly voice wouldn't shake so much.

Fenwick looks at him in surprise, then barks out his bitter laugh. "Of course you are, pretty boy."

He comes close and because he clearly doesn't want to hurt him, Draco lets him lift the girl's thin body off the bed to change the sheets. Fenwick gives him water, then heals whatever perverse thing McKinnon has done to the girl's vagina. He gently mends Draco's broken arm and the bruised wrist. He even takes Draco to the bathroom and lets him wash up. When they are back in the cell, he gives Draco a wool blanket that smells clean and only a bit like mould. With the soiled sheets balled-up under his arm, he walks to the door. There, he stops and turns to Draco.

"You really hate me now, don't you, blondie?"

Draco is taken aback by the question, the first personal words Fenwick said to him since that afternoon. "I've hated you since the first moment I saw you," he says and wonders if that reply will finally bring down the Killing Curse on him.

But Fenwick chuckles and leans back against the door. "I don't think that's true. You were shitting your pants, but you didn't hate me."

Fuck him. "All right, so how about, I've hated you since you made me suck Elliot's dick. Or maybe since you gave me nothing to drink but Polyjuice. Or even better: I've hated you since you've allowed that swine Pepper to fuck me raw, night after night!" Draco's sitting up on the bed as he shouts at the guard. He is playing a risky game. But Fenwick hasn't killed him yet and that can only mean killing Draco is not part of Fenwick's plan. Not for now at least. And it feels good that for once it's him doing the shouting.

Fenwick watches Draco's outburst with a look of faint surprise. Well, fuck him! Draco lets himself fall back onto the mattress, eyes on the ceiling. As he catches his breath, it hits him that in Fenwick's twisted little world the worst he has done is to make Mr Greengrass believe Draco is his daughter Astoria. Draco himself is just another puppet in Fenwick's plan of revenge. Everything that was done to Draco at Erlestoke is just a means to another end. It's like Mr Greengrass said: Draco has nothing to do with it. This, this is the moment when Draco truly starts hating Jake Fenwick.

He's still staring at the ceiling when Fenwick sits down on the foot of the bed. He's curious about something, something that has to do with Mr Greengrass.

"You're a very accomplished Legilimens," he says. "Wandless, too." It doesn't exactly sound like a compliment.

"I've learned from the best." He doesn't mention that all his teachers died on the same day, a day that Draco considered one of the worst in his life not two months ago.

"So you think you know all about Barney and me." It's a statement, not a question.

"I know what I saw."

Fenwick's eyes don't twitch; his lips don't quiver. His features remain deceptively calm. And yet, there's something in the way he hides his left hand in the soiled sheets, the way he leans slightly forward. It tells Draco without words that Fenwick's never used Legilimency on Mr Greengrass. He doesn't know what Draco has seen. And he wants to know. And he doesn't. Legilimency is tricky business. You always only see what the person remembers, never the whole truth of it. In the blink of a moment Draco sees the means of _his_ revenge beautifully laid out before him. And unlike Fenwick, he won't even have to lie.

"I never did any of the things they said I did." Fenwick is offering him bits of the story for bits of what Draco's seen in Mr Greengrass' mind. Oh, but he won't play that game.

"What things?" he asks, all innocence.

"That I fucked him against his will. That I Imperioed him."

Draco can just see his parents devise such accusations to clear Barney Greengrass' good Slytherin name. He loves them dearly, but he would never want Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy as his enemies.

"He was very young." Draco tries for non-committal.

"Barney was fifteen. I wasn't even his first lover. He knew exactly what he wanted." Fenwick pulls his left hand from the pile of sheets. "The scar? They said his bite marks were evidence I forced him. That he was fighting me." His bitter laugh has a frantic edge to it. "God, he was coming when he bit me. He loved it so much that he couldn't keep quiet. He was biting into my hand to not give us away."

Draco shrugs, wondering if Fenwick told all that to Dumbledore and the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Abraxas Malfoy and Druella Black would have ripped such a naive defence to shreds. Looking at Fenwick now, Draco cannot help thinking that they did.

Fenwick gets up and grabs the sheets. He leans over Draco. "No matter what you've seen, you know nothing about Barney and me."

Draco edges to the wall. Fenwick's upset and entirely too close. He waits until the guard is almost at the door. Then he goes in for the kill.

"He loved you, you know."

Fenwick stops. His shoulders slump as if he's clutching the sheets to his heart. He doesn't turn when he whispers, "You're a bloody liar, Malfoy."

Something drops to the floor. It's the empty tube of lavender toothpaste that Draco has all but forgotten underneath his sheets. Fenwick stoops to pick it up and stick it into the pile with the other rubbish.

Turning to Draco, he says, "I'm not going to kill you, blondie," casually as if they were discussing what's for dinner at Erle tonight. "But you better not get Pepper mad at you again."

  
*****   


Outside, the Wiltshire winter has settled in. Gentle snowstorms shake Erlestoke at night and transform the park into a white world of glittering wonders. Draco stands for hours at the window and imagines clouds of snow-dust in the air, snowflakes dancing on his skin. It's freezing in the cell and ice flowers bloom on the window pane. The girl shivers all the time. Draco can hardly remember how it felt not to be so cold. Fenwick brings him more blankets, but never clothes. Clothes increase Draco's chances of escape, and they're not taking any chances.

Within Erlestoke, the guards settle into their old routine: Polyjuice four times a day, and whoever brings it stays until Draco dutifully swallows it.

Pepper comes for Julie at night. He has started talking to her, telling her long stories about the home he's made for them. If it's not all just figments of his crazed mind, then he's even added magical space for a nursery to his flat. It makes Draco sick to his stomach to listen to this shite. But he heeds Fenwick's warning, never speaks up and says as little as possible. During the long hours that Pepper lies beside him, big hands groping the girl's tits while he talks and talks in his pinched voice, Draco hopes and prays that Fenwick does not Obliviate him to this: Polyjuiced as Julie for the rest of his life without any memory of what was before or who he is. The thought makes Draco's throat constrict and his heartbeat quicken painfully.

Fenwick shows up twice a day to bring water and food and heal whatever damage has been done to Draco. Sometimes he brings Barney Greengrass to the cell when it's McKinnon's turn with the girl. Since Fenwick has warned him off, McKinnon does take it easier on her. His rapes are perfunctory, no more elaborate torture games. Easier, of course, means it takes much longer. McKinnon can barely get it up without his toys. He takes some sick pleasure from spurting all over the girl's body when he finally does come. Even Petrified in his corner, it's obvious the sight drives Mr Greengrass out of his mind.

Ever so often Fenwick leaves Mr Greengrass alone with Draco. These are the most dangerous times. Fenwick will end the Binding Spell, help Mr Greengrass to his feet and lead him to the bed. He is setting them up as puppets in his game, and Draco tries very hard to not play along. They barely talk, and when they do he makes sure Mr Greengrass knows whom he is talking to. But the girl cannot refuse for long the comfort Mr Greengrass is so willing to provide. Draco may manage a few awkward minutes sitting apart, but then she curls up in Mr Greengrass' lap. His strong, warm hands smooth out the tangled strands of her hair. Small soothing noises spill from his lips, wordless animal sounds that promise warmth and safety. Draco knows they are not for him, but he soaks them up and lets them fill his mind. With the bells gone, it is something to hold on to.

He struggles not to fall asleep in Mr Greengrass' lap. In sleep, the girl takes over. But his lids drop, his thoughts go wandering, his body nests deeper into Mr Greengrass. Draco dreams of lavender fields, of a blonde girl running through them on bare feet, hair and skirts flowing. He wakes to the memory of light cloth that clings and sways around his naked thighs. _My little girl_ , Mr Greengrass whispers and Draco is too tired to tell him he's six feet one and has never in his life worn a skirt.

Fenwick casts dark, jealous looks at them when he comes to take Mr Greengrass away. Does he envy Draco the touch of Mr Greengrass' hands? Would he want to comfort Barney like Mr Greengrass comforts the girl? Draco doesn't know.

One night he wakes with Fenwick in his cell, a dark shadow sitting in Mr Greengrass' usual spot in the corner. Draco is so taken by surprise he scrambles against the wall, for fear of what Fenwick will do to him. The glint of the flask tells him the guard is drunk again. But Fenwick just looks at him, eyes bright in the dim light. He looks and looks and drinks. He doesn't speak, doesn't come close; he doesn't touch Draco. After what seems like hours, Draco is so exhausted he falls asleep again. The next morning Fenwick's gone. It might as well have been a dream.

Days and nights flow into each other with the soft howling of the wind and the ever-present white outside. Draco's stopped counting the days. Sometimes he hides underneath the desk and looks at the scratches and nibs in the wall. There are eighteen scratches for the first eighteen days of February. Has he been at Erle three times as long? Or longer? Is it March outside? Or still February? The ice flowers on the window grow every day.

  
*****   


Draco has his first period the day his father is executed in Azkaban.

Lucius Malfoy's death makes the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. They've chosen an older photograph showing Father in his magnificent, silk-trimmed robes, making an appearance before the Wizengamot. He is all polite smiles as he waves to someone on the gallery.

Draco crouches to pick the paper up that someone -- McKinnon, he suspects -- has thrown into his cell. That's when he notices the red smears on the insides of his thighs and the clods of blood on the sheets. At first he thinks Pepper hurt him again with his long, useless prick, then he remembers Fenwick came by at midnight and took care of him. Draco's been feeling shitty all day yesterday with a headache and his nerves raw. When Fenwick gave him the potion, he started crying again, and he's not done that in weeks.

His head spins with what the blood on his thighs might mean. He forces himself for the umpteenth time to remember all he knows about Polyjuice Potion. _Lacewing flies, leeches, bicorn horn ..._ He's been Polyjuiced for weeks without taking breaks. Nothing he remembers from Potions class tells him exactly how long the potion can be abused without lasting effects. _Knotgrass, fluxweed ... fluxweed picked at the full moon ..._ If only they had let him keep his Potions book. Draco needs it now. _Shredded boomslang skin_ , yes. _And a bit of the one you want to turn into._ Who do you want to turn into? A girl?

Lucius Malfoy is dead. He's been executed on the second of March, less than a year after the downfall of the Dark Lord whom he followed for most of his life.

So it's March already, Draco thinks. And wonders whether this is why Mother doesn't come anymore on Sundays.

At lunchtime McKinnon shows up with the Polyjuice Potion. Draco hopes that at least he will leave him alone when the girl's on her period. No such luck. McKinnon is strangely intrigued with the menstrual blood that soaks the sheets between the girl's legs. He smears it all over Draco's belly while he jerks off and spurts his spunk onto Draco, too.

Humiliation burns in Draco's stomach; anger rises like acid in his throat. He tries to reach for it, but the girl could not care less. The cramps in her belly are so bad, she wants to curl up into a ball and sob. But McKinnon is not yet done with her. He takes a Knut from his pocket and Transfigures the coin into a bronze-coloured glass that he shoves into her bleeding pussy. It doesn't hurt much, but then he casts a _Reducto_ and the glass shatters within her.

Draco lies completely still, dreading what sick thing will come next. But McKinnon moves away from the bed. He stares curiously at the girl, an expectant look on his face. Draco knows it's not even sexual for him. It's simple experimentation. What will happen if I do that, what if I do this? He sees the girl's body but not Astoria. Draco Malfoy? The Death Eater brat? Prisoner number 3168? He's not even in this cell. Draco's invisible, a ghost already.

Clutching at the last shreds of hate -- at McKinnon, but even more at Fenwick, for where the fuck is he when Draco needs him? -- Draco closes the girl's legs so McKinnon cannot stare any longer at her pussy. Immediately dozens of knife points stab at him from the inside. The girl clutches her belly, but the knives just slice deeper. Draco tells her not to move, not an inch, to lie absolutely still. But the girl's instincts scream to pull out whatever's scissoring her insides. She reaches into the shards. Draco's hands come away all cut up and bleeding.

With a smirk McKinnon pushes his wand up his sleeve. The experiment was successful; the results appear to be satisfying. Draco wants to tap into his last reserve of hate again and throw insults at the bastard, useless as they are. But the girl tells him to stop wasting energy and focus on lying still and not bleeding to death until Fenwick comes. She is right. Stray thoughts fill Draco's mind: that he is a half-orphan now, and a half-man, too, a Polyjuiced boy on the rag.

McKinnon mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, "Fuck Fenwick," then he opens the door to leave. Right at this moment, a familiar voice is shouting down the corridor.

"Let go of me," it yells, obnoxious as ever. "I know he's here. Mrs Malfoy said he's in a cell under the roof. And this is the one corridor the Aurors weren't allowed to search."

McKinnon stands frozen at the door he's just opened.

"Damn it, Harry. You've heard what the Governor said. The cells up here are evacuated because of Dragon Pox."

Draco doesn't recognise this darker voice. It's not someone he's ever met. But he would know Harry Potter's voice anywhere. He is here, at Erlestoke, searching for Draco! Mother must have got in touch with him when they would no longer allow her to visit. Potter owes the Malfoys. Mother did save his life, after all.

All of this flashes through Draco's mind, but paramount is this: someone is here, looking for him. The door is open if only a fraction. Whoever is out in the corridor will hear him. Already McKinnon inches the door shut, very slowly, very carefully. In another moment Draco's chance at rescue will be gone.

Cut fingers forgotten, Draco pushes himself up from the bed. The knives in his belly only make him cry out louder. The sound fills the cell and pushes against the door, but the girl's voice is too soft to carry the full force of how much Draco wants out of _here_ , this body, this cell. His voice cracks in a high-pitched squeal as McKinnon's hand clamps down on him. Draco struggles to get free, bleeding all over McKinnon's face as he claws the bastard's face with long fingernails. McKinnon snarls at him, wand drawn, as he rams his knee into the girl's abdomen. The splintery sound of glass crunching into glass reminds Draco to not again let an enemy know what he wants. Not even McKinnon's hard grip can stifle the girl's agonised screams of pain.

Yet his " _Silencio!_ " cuts them short. The Spell closes around Draco's throat and he struggles to breathe. McKinnon is at the door again. They both listen intently. There's a shuffle at the stairs, then light footsteps come running towards the cell, followed by more forceful, heavier ones. Potter must have heard something.

"The little fucker," McKinnon growls under his breath.

He shuts the door but for the bolt sliding home into the latch. The voices outside are too muffled to make out what they're saying. For a couple of minutes there's stomping and loud banging on doors.

Draco wants to scream for help again, but the Spell won't allow him to even cough. His body is shaking with the pain of the splinters within the girl. Why can't Potter find the cell? Why doesn't he come banging on _his_ door? He concentrates, trying hard to not let the girl distract him, and sends out the shapeless markers of his magical presence. Potter felt it before, in every hateful curse and spell Draco hit him with. He seems to sense it now, for he shouts, "Malfoy! Where the fuck are you?"

The door bolt latches shut as McKinnon whirls around, face white with fury. A muttered curse; magic blazes. His Stunning Spell sends Draco into blind oblivion.

  
*****   


Mr Greengrass has his arm wrapped around the girl's waist. He strokes her head again and again, weaving in and out of the strands of her long hair that catch, softly, on the rough calluses of his palms. _Father's dead_ , Draco thinks and he longs for a memory of his father, holding him with such love as Mr Greengrass holds the girl. But all he recalls is a misty morning, Astoria clinging to Mr Greengrass' robes when her sister tries to take her away. As if thrown into a Pensieve, Draco can see in vivid detail Mr Greengrass' broad smile and the way his strong hands pat Astoria's blonde head.

From the crumpled _Prophet_ on the floor, Father smiles at him politely, then waves at someone on the gallery.

_But Merlin, how can that be, Jake? She's on her ..._

_I told you. This is no Polyjuice trick._

Did he really hear them talking? He feels warm with blankets all around. Draco stretches carefully, and there is no pain. The splinters in his pussy are gone. Instead they've stuffed a soft cloth between his thighs.

Mr Greengrass pulls him closer. "Shh, my star. It's all right, darling. Go to sleep." His voice is smooth and dark like the night shadows that fill the cell. "Close your eyes," he whispers into Draco's hair.

Draco keeps his eyes open for another moment. Potter was here, in Erlestoke, running along his corridor. It can only mean not much longer now and they will find him, they will get him out of here. Just a bit longer, another day, another night ... But the girl doesn't believe Draco any more. She's at home already in her father's arms, enfolded by his familiar smell of polishing potions and chives. She closes Draco's eyes and tells him to stop thinking.

"Night, daddy," she mumbles, nestling tighter into Mr Greengrass' lap. For a heartbeat his hand tenses in her hair, then he resumes his gentle stroking.

  
*****   


In the morning light the glass bottle gleams a brilliant blue. It glitters like the cut stones from Narcissa Malfoy's jewellery. Mr Greengrass lies beside it. The sconce is halfway ripped out of the wall. The magical candle has fallen to the floor, and he seems to reach for it with his right hand. Its thick fingers are muscled rather than fleshy, with blue veins standing out from the freckled skin. There's dust and small pieces of plaster in his hair and on his clothes. It looks as if flour was sprinkled on the black and maroon stripes of his prison garb. His head is turned unnaturally far to the side so that his chin touches the back of his shoulder. A bruised band winds around his throat, deeply etched into his skin, its colour a purple blue like violets. Blue like his daughter's eyes. His own eyes go to the window. They stare wide open into the brilliant rays of the rising sun.

  
*****   


Huddled at the foot of his bed, as far away as possible from the dead body in his cell, Draco sits awake and waits. Fenwick comes earlier than usual, at least an hour before breakfast. Perhaps he sensed that it's over. He doesn't acknowledge Draco, eyes fastened on Mr Greengrass on the floor. Slowly he approaches the body. He picks up the candle, touches the water bottle as if to make sure it is real.

Draco wonders whether this truly was Fenwick's plan all along. Whether he left the bottle with Draco intentionally. Whether he gave Mr Greengrass these few minutes with a wand that allowed him to Transfigure the bottle into a silk ribbon -- or anything, tie, rope, anything to top himself. Draco cannot make himself believe it. Fenwick wanted Mr Greengrass dead, there is no doubting this. But too much of his plan has been coincidence, too many risks, too many possibilities for things to turn out differently. Draco is strangely reminded of his own fumbling schemes at second-hand murder, the Cursed necklace, the poisoned mead. How much of a killer can one be when giving fate so many chances to intervene?

As if he's heard his thoughts, Fenwick turns to him. He is paler than Draco's ever seen him, but he tries for a lop-sided smile.

"Should have taken up with you, blondie, shouldn't I?" His voice is quiet, the quiver in it barely perceptible.

"I don't think so." Draco tries a grin of his own. "You don't even like girls, Fenwick."

Fenwick laughs at that, the brittle bitter laugh that never was enough to make up for what Jake Fenwick lost during that sixth year in Hogwarts. Draco wonders if anything or anyone could have ever made up for it. Fenwick affectionately pats his knee; he lets his hand linger a moment on the blanket that covers it. Then he turns to Mr Greengrass. It's all the apology Draco will ever get from him.

Crouching beside the body, Fenwick puts his hand against the broken neck, gently, as if the man was still alive. Carefully he turns Mr Greengrass' head towards his own chest. He takes the body in his arms and lifts it from the floor. Mr Greengrass lost a lot of weight at Erle. Still, he was a full-grown wizard, turned heavier even in death when all matter sinks towards the earth. The muscles in Fenwick's neck stand out like tightly pulled ropes. He sways for a moment before he finds a balanced stance that allows him to carry his burden. Quietly he walks towards the door and steps out of the cell. He never looks back at Draco to say good-bye.

The door, two inches of solid iron, swings back as if to close, then it comes to a halt. Pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders, Draco steps to the side of the door and glances into the corridor. Fenwick walks towards the stairs with slow, heavy steps. His head is bowed as if he's buried his face in Mr Greengrass' hair. Other than Fenwick, the corridor is empty.

Draco looks back into the cell. The bottle has rolled underneath the chair, the _Prophet_ lies half-hidden underneath the bed. The sconce hangs from the wall, its candle gone with Fenwick. The winter sunlight is dimmed by the ice flowers, which cover almost the entire window. Nothing in the cell reminds of Draco. The sudden chance of escape makes his heartbeat stumble and race at the same time. He checks the corridor one more time, listens for noises on the stairs. Nothing. Draco steps onto the threshold of his cell.

Magic beats down on him like sharp, ice-cold hail, as he is thrown back into the cell with vicious force. The door is open, but the wards to keep him in are securely in place. Draco sobs from sheer frustration. He rages against Fenwick, egoistic bastard that he is. He could so easily have taken the wards down and given Draco his one chance of escape. Still, he won't give up, tries again and again. For a while he's losing it, throwing himself naked against the wards, screaming and begging and pleading that somebody please let him out. He ends up beaten and dizzy in a pile inside the door.

It's the girl who finally makes him pull himself together and sit down on the bed. Bright red blood is dripping from her pussy down his thighs to her small feet. Before it can drip onto the _Prophet_ , Draco shoves the paper out of the way.

Astoria's lost her father not a day after Draco's lost his. Half-orphans, half-men, both of them. Or one and the same.

The girl moves her hands over Astoria's breasts. In the icy cold of the cell her tiny nipples are hard and almost white: small buds that will open into the glittering beauty of the ice flowers.

  
*****   


Water is seeping from the worm-eaten window frame where the ice flowers have taken root. Last night's cold spell turned it into a sheet of ice that runs down the wall from the window sill to the floor. Astoria has made her bed on this pure, clear layer of ice covered by rime so fine and fragile it's like spun sugar. Carefully she's stretched out on it and wrapped herself into the soft light that trickles through the window -- brighter even than sunlight, a blinding translucent white that enfolds her and keeps her safe.

The shadows in the cell are lengthening: noon has long passed and nobody came. For the first time in weeks Astoria has not had her potion. She keeps moving her hands over her body, tracing the ice flower pattern that coats her skin. There are icicles in her blood, too, and perhaps that is why her period stopped. But underneath her skin something hovers; a boy trapped like a ghostly body underneath the black ice of a frozen lake. There's a shifting and changing within Astoria that wants desperately to happen but can't. The ice flowers rustle. Oddly, their chilly voices remind Astoria of spring.

"He's up here! Come on, hurry!"

A clear voice rings through the corridor. There are people stomping up the stairs, with heavy boots and loud voices. Erlestoke's frozen stillness is shattered by the din and clamour. Astoria sits up and huddles closer against the sheets of ice. Wrapped in the frosty light nobody can hurt her.

A sea of red appears before the half-open door and threatens to flood the cell. Whatever is holding it at bay must be what's holding her inside. There's movement and the clear voice from before speaks up again.

"This is the cell. I am sure of it." It's a young man, a boy even, judging by the high-pitched excitement in his voice. Astoria knows him; his name is on her tongue. "They must have rendered the cell Unplottable for all those weeks. I was up here so often, looking for him. But I never saw the door."

A sandy-haired boy steps into the cell. His body is like fire, his breath like smoke. Astoria can feel its warmth from where she's sitting underneath the window. _Elliot._

He takes a few slow steps. Her nakedness startles him, perhaps even her female shape. Astoria is pretty sure he's never seen a naked woman before. Under Elliot's bewildered gaze her body begins to tremble. Not much longer now, and the change will happen. It's pulling at her limbs and stretching her skin. She covers her breasts with her arms. Her chest expands with each breath she takes. The boy is about to burst through.

"He's not here," Elliot whispers. "There's a girl here. She's ... she's ..."

"I meant to thank you," she says, her voice scratchy and deepening like a man's, "for the pumpkin juice. But you were never around anymore in the library."

Elliot stares at her open-mouthed.

Harry Potter comes into the cell behind him. His robes are covered in snow. Even his eyebrows are thick with frost; they make him look like a much older man. From the boy comes a clear memory of him with sparks in his black hair, flying through a wall of blazing flames.

Potter says something to Elliot before he comes closer and crouches before Astoria. Slowly he extends his hand and helps her get up from the floor. She is taller than Astoria ever was. Potter takes one good look at her, pulls off his robes and hands them over to her. Her frozen fingers can barely hold the heavy cloth, much less close the clasps. Potter helps her and his hands are very warm. Astoria leans into them, because the boy's so desperate for heat, and Potter does not take them away.

"Who are you?" he asks softly, searching her face. Perhaps there is magic in Potter's voice, or perhaps it's simply that he asks. But his words more than even the warmth of his hands make the ice flowers on her skin crack and melt. It's the moment when the Polyjuice gives up its hold.

Reaching for memory, reaching for ... "What's with the glasses, Potter?" The drawling voice echoes a schoolboy's hatred that is insubstantial now. "Are you blind? It's me, Draco. Draco Malfoy."

Potter's mouth twitches into a smile. He turns to the Aurors, who are waiting with Elliot at the door. "It's him all right."

He's laughing, relieved and a bit shaky as if he cannot believe he's truly found Draco. He takes him by the shoulder and shakes him, very gently. "Git. We've been looking for you bloody everywhere. Your mother's pulled every string in and out of the book to keep the search going." Then worry creeps into his eyes. "You're Polyjuiced, aren't you?"

Draco nods. His skin is on fire; his whole body is heating up fast with the change coming over him. "I'm Draco," he says. He is shaking so hard his knees buckle, and he would have fallen had Potter not caught him. He pants against Potter's neck, whispering, "I'm Draco Malfoy."

Potter says, "I know you are. What's happening with you, Malfoy?"

Draco wants to explain, but he's too far into the change. Potter stiffens in surprise when Draco's body fills out at some places, flattens at others, but he does not let him go. The girl's long hair retreats into Draco's scalp, her face reshapes into his sharper and pointier features. His shoulders stretch into Potter's robes, which still hang loosely on him but fit his size.

When he's fully changed, Potter slowly loosens his hold on him, giving him space. More and more people are filling the corridor. Their voices are terribly loud. Draco's not ready to be seen with his body that feels awkward and gangly to him: an alien thing. He turns away and leans against the window. The ice flowers glow golden in the afternoon sun; under his fingertips they become soft and wet. Rivulets of water run down the glass where the ice has melted and given way to the view into the park. It's still all covered in snow, but the sun hits the trees in an unmistakable angle that spells spring. Draco thinks how very, very badly he wants to fly.

He turns to Potter, who's watching him with an expression Draco for a moment mistakes for pity. Then he realises that it's not. He cannot help but chuckle, noticing how crazy he must sound. But it is funny, really, that after all of this Draco's finally earned himself Harry Potter's respect.

His voice shakes just a bit when he says, "Fancy a game of Quidditch, Scarhead? I'm dying to get on a broom."

Potter blinks, then grins. "Anytime, Malfoy. Anytime you want."

  
_* fin *_   


 

_Epilogue_

Jacob Fenwick was found dead in a cell at Erlestoke House of Corrections, having cast a Strangling Curse on himself. Nono Pepper was arrested and later committed to the Janus Thickney Ward at St. Mungo's. After a week-long Auror search, Thomas McKinnon was discovered hiding in a Muggle seaside town. He was brought to trial and received the death sentence. John Wilmot was removed as Governor of Erlestoke and sentenced to five years in Azkaban for aiding and abetting the crimes that were committed under his care. Both the Erlestoke librarian and the doctor were acquitted of all charges.

Elliot Miller left Erlestoke and now works for a bookstore in Hogsmeade.

The body of Barnabas Greengrass is buried in the family lot of his bereaved wife. The particular circumstances of his death were never revealed to the public.

After a two-month stay with the healers of the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo's, Draco Malfoy moved from Wiltshire to London where he studies for his N.E.W.T.s. He and Harry Potter have become friends.

Erlestoke lies peaceful and drowsy in the summer sun. It's quiet again after the storms and uproar of the winter. A gentle breeze shakes the fuzzy flowers of the dandelions in the park. Up in the attic a bell chimes, a wistful sound that carries all the way from the woods to the village. There's a new ghost haunting Erlestoke, and he loves to ring that bell. It disturbs only the crows that flutter off the gate piers and hide in the birches. A pale young wizard looks up to them. His parents accompany him as he is committed to the prison for his five-month sentence. At Christmas he will be home again.

  
*****   


 

Link to [Livejournal post.](http://vaysh11.livejournal.com/111600.html)

 **Disclaimer:** All recognisable Harry Potter characters and settings in this fanfiction are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work.


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